#soft bucky

There is no one on earth Rebecca Barnes trusts more than you.

You grew up together, matching scraped knees, shared bedrooms, years of knowing what the other one is thinking before it’s ever said. You’re not just her best friend; you’re family by choice, by time, by sheer inevitability. When people ask Rebecca how she knows she can trust someone, she shrugs and says, I just do. What she means is you.

That’s why there aren’t rules between you.

Just guidelines.

Don’t take my charger without bringing the box back, after the eighth time she swore she had no idea where the box went while handing you only the cord.

If you use all the shampoo, leave a note on the mirror, after one too many mornings of her standing in the shower, bottle upside down, shaking it like it might magically produce another drop.

And lastly, said once, firmly, never joking:

Don’t ever, ever flirt with my brother.

Not because Rebecca doesn’t trust you. Because she trusts you more than anyone else.

Bucky Barnes is one thousand percent off-limits. Not hypothetically. Not dramatically. Just… absolutely. You’ve watched too many girls orbit Rebecca only to angle closer to him, smiling too brightly, lingering too long, treating her like a means to an end. You’ve been there for every crash-and-burn aftermath, every quiet heartbreak, every moment Rebecca wondered why people never wanted just her.

You would never be that person.

The guideline barely registers as something you’d ever need to worry about anyway. You and Bucky hardly cross paths. Sometimes you’ll see him at her house—standing in the kitchen when you grab a glass of water, offering a polite nod, disappearing again like smoke. He’s more absence than presence. A name. A shadow. A ghost story people talk about more than they actually know.

You never understood what all the other girls saw in him. You never cared to find out.

Right before summer starts, you’re bored out of your mind.

You’re hanging upside down off your bed, hair brushing the carpet, complaining to Rebecca about how three months suddenly feels like an eternity when you don’t have a plan. No trips, no job lined up yet just too much time and a buzzing restlessness you don’t know what to do with.

“I don’t want to waste it,” you groan. “I need something.”

Rebecca leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with an amused smile. “School’s doing a pen-pal thing over the summer.”

You blink. “Like… stamps? Letters?”

“Yeah. You can even be anonymous,” she adds. “They match you up with someone from a different class year. It’s supposed to be about connection or whatever.”

You think about it. About quiet afternoons. About having someone to talk to without expectations.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll sign up.”

You do.

A week later, your first letter arrives at the school mail station. No name. Just a neat, careful handwriting and a simple opening line: Hi. I’m not really sure how to do this, but I’m glad there's someone to do it with.

Something about it makes you smile. You write back. And then you don’t stop.

You stay anonymous, both of you. No names, no identifying details. Just words passed back and forth like offerings. You talk about music first, songs you play on repeat, albums that feel like home. Then movies. Then books. You tell him what you’re reading, what you love about certain characters, how stories make things feel survivable.

He sends you poems.

Ones he wrote, ones he loves. Dog-eared favorites copied carefully into the margins of his letters. Lines about longing, about time, about wanting to be more than what the world expects of you. You read them over and over.

You tell him about school. About how many extra classes you’re taking, how you’re stacking credits and stress because your dream job feels impossible unless you make yourself undeniable. You admit, quietly, how much pressure you feel, how your dad’s trying but money is always tight. You tell him about your mom, the necklace she left behind. How much you miss her, how some days the ache sneaks up on you when you least expect it and refuses to let go.

His next letter takes longer to arrive. When it does, the handwriting is shakier.

He tells you he doesn't have a job lined up, that he was undeclared until last year. Says he’s not smart enough. That school’s always felt like something happening to him instead of for him. That he’s tired of feeling like he’s already fallen behind.

Your chest aches reading it. You write back immediately.

You tell him intelligence isn’t one thing. You tell him about different ways of learning and you even offer half-joking, half-serious, to tutor him through letters. You start including lesson plans in the margins, little quizzes at the end. Practice problems handwritten with encouraging notes at the top.

He does them. All of them. And he gets better.

His letters change, more confident, more excited. He tells you about raising his grades, about understanding things that used to feel impossible. He thanks you in a way that feels too big for ink and paper.

Somewhere along the way, you realize you wait for his letters more than anything else. You don’t know what he looks like, you don’t know his name. But you know him.

It doesn't register as a crush at first.

You tell yourself it’s just anticipation. Just the small thrill of routine, checking the school mailbox earlier than you need to, flipping envelopes over to see if the handwriting looks familiar. You tell yourself everyone likes being understood, that the warmth spreading through your chest when you read his letters is normal.

Except you don’t write like you used to anymore.

You write longer. Softer. You start crossing things out, rewriting sentences so they sound right. You tell him about the things you don’t say out loud, about how your dad only ever looks relieved when you bring home perfect grades, how failure feels like erasure. How sometimes you’re terrified that if you stop being impressive, you’ll stop being lovable.

You expect platitudes. Reassurance that feels generic.

Instead, his reply is careful. Thoughtful. He tells you that you are not a report card. That worth doesn’t disappear when numbers dip. That being loved shouldn’t be conditional, and that even if it has been in the past, it doesn’t mean it always has to be.

You cry a little when you read it.

In his next letter, he admits something too.

He says his parents already seem disappointed, like they’ve decided who he’ll be before he ever gets there. That trying feels pointless when failure is expected anyway. That it’s easier to accept the role they’ve written for him than fight it and still lose.

You don’t let him.

You tell him that being underestimated doesn’t mean being incapable. You tell him about every small victory you’ve watched him earn through those stupid little quizzes you mailed him. You tell him you’re proud of him, even if no one else says it out loud.

After that, the letters change.

They still talk about music and books and poems, but now there are confessions folded between the lines. Longing disguised as curiosity. Questions that linger longer than they need to. They start signing off differently, thinking of you, write soon, don’t disappear.

By the end of summer, it feels like you’re in love with someone you’ve never seen.

The realization doesn’t arrive all at once. It settles. And when you finally suggest meeting, heart hammering as you write it, hands shaking, you half-expect him to pull away.

Instead, his response comes fast.

County fair. End of summer as the carousel. I’ll be there.

The day arrives far too soon. The fair is loud and bright and overwhelming, music blaring, kids laughing, the air thick with sugar and heat. You stand near the carousel, scanning faces, trying to imagine him. Taller? Shorter? Nervous like you?

You don’t notice him right away.

Bucky does.

He’s already there, leaning against the railing, pretending he’s just waiting for someone else. When he sees you approach, something in his chest tightens—not fear, just awareness. You look… familiar, somehow. Not because he knows you, you feel like a thought he’s had before but never finished.

He steps closer, offering a polite smile. "Hey."

You smile politely, not expecting him to be here but not surprised, you vaguley remember him being in the kitchen when Rebecca mentioned the fair to you. "Hi."

“You waiting for someone?”

You nod, nerves buzzing under your skin. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Guess we’re both early.”

You make awkward small talk. The weather. The crowd. The carousel lights spinning gold as dusk settles in. It’s easy. Too easy.

Your hands fidget without you realizing it, fingers brushing the chain around your neck. You twist the golden locket gently, a nervous habit you’ve written about once, mentioned how it was your mom’s, how you rub it when you’re scared.

Bucky’s breath catches.

“That’s… a nice necklace,” he says carefully.

You smile, instinctive. “Thanks. It was my mom’s. I do this when I’m nervous—” You stop short, laughing softly. “Sorry. Oversharing.”

He doesn’t laugh. He stares. The world seems to narrow, the music dulling, the carousel lights flaring brighter, gilding you in warm gold. His heart starts pounding, too fast, too loud.

You’ve told him this before. In ink. In confidence. In trust.

He sees it all at once. Every time he passed you in the kitchen. Every quiet laugh from Rebecca’s room. Every moment he never let himself linger on because you were off-limits.

It’s you. It’s always been you.

He’s in love with you.

He doesn’t say anything. Not then. Bucky swallows the truth down so hard it almost hurts, and instead he smiles, soft and careful, like he’s handling something fragile.

“While we’re waiting,” he says, nodding toward the games lined up in bright rows, “you wanna try some of those?”

You look to the games and back to the carousel, wondering if it's a good idea to leave or not, if your mystery writer was on his way. Bucky offers a slanted smile as you look back at him and think you might as well do something to pass the time.

So you do. You toss rings and laugh when they bounce wrong while he knocks bottles down like he’s done it a hundred times before. When the attendant hands him a small stuffed turtle, green and lopsided, clearly overstuffed, he looks almost embarrassed by it.

“For you,” he says, holding it out.

You blink. “You won that.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Thought you should have it.”

You don't take it but smile when he lets you pet the fuzzy shell.

You win stickers, sparkly ones, silly ones, and you’re way more excited than makes sense. You show him all of them, sticking one to your wrist, another to the turtle’s shell. He laughs, quiet and warm, and something in your chest loosens without you realizing it.

He buys you food while you wait. Insists on it. Fries and lemonade, the kind that tastes like summer and sugar. When the night air cools, he drapes his jacket over your shoulders without asking.

You glance up at him, confused. “You don’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” he says. “I want to.”

You wonder, briefly, why he’s being so nice. Then you decide not to overthink it. Some people are just kind.

Eventually, the carousel empties. The lights dim a little. Time stretches thin. You check the spot again. And again. Your shoulders sink.

“I guess… maybe they’re not coming,” you say quietly, trying to sound casual and failing. “It’s fine. I probably read it wrong.”

Bucky’s chest aches.

“I can walk you home,” he offers quickly. “If you want.”

You nod, grateful. The walk is easy. Familiar streets. Comfortable silence. When you reach your house, you linger on the porch, fingers twisting together.

He holds out the turtle again. “For real this time.”

You take it, smiling sadly. “Thank you. And… I’m sorry if tonight was boring.”

“What?” His brow furrows. “No. You didn’t ruin anything.”

You look up at him, sincere. “You didn’t either. If anything, you made it better.”

The words hit him harder than anything else has all night. He nods once, afraid if he speaks, he’ll say too much. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

He walks away with his heart in pieces and doesn’t look back until he’s sure you’re inside.

That night, you write a letter. You ask why he didn’t show. You try not to sound hurt, but it slips through anyway. You tuck the stickers inside the envelope, a little silly but honest.

I was thinking about you the whole time, you write. I hope you’re okay.

Days pass.

Then weeks.

No reply.

Still, you keep writing. You send him songs you think he’d like, books you’re reading for class, movies you swear he’d love. You tell him school started and you hope you can still write, even if things are busy. Even if it’s just as friends.

You don’t know that Bucky keeps every letter in a box under his bed, unopened at first, then opened, reread until the paper softens at the creases. You don’t know how many times he starts to respond and stops, terrified that saying anything will shatter everything.

You only know the silence.

So you fill it.

Each letter becomes more honest than the last, written like confessions dropped into the dark. You tell him your secrets because you think he’ll never see them anyway. You tell him you’re still scared you’ll never be anything outside of school, that once the grades are gone there’ll be nothing left of you. That you don’t know how to live a life that isn’t measured.

That you don’t think you’ll ever really fall in love.

In one letter, you admit casually, like it doesn’t matter, that you had a crush on him at first. That it went away (It didn’t.), that Rebecca told you it was stupid to fall for someone you only know through paper and ink.

But you write that it felt real anyway. That you felt known. At the end of the last letter, your handwriting wavers.

I think I’m going to stop writing, you say. I don’t want to bother you anymore. But I’m glad I knew you. Even if it was just like this.

You seal it with shaking hands. Across town, Bucky reads it and finally breaks and knows he can’t stay silent anymore.

That night, he casually asks Rebecca if you’re coming over. When she says no, he gathers the letters, every single one, and drives to your house.

You’re in the backyard, curled up with a book, when you hear the gate creak open.

“Bucky?” you ask, startled. “What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer. He just pulls out the first letter and starts to read. "I don't know how to do this either, I don't know how to talk about myself without actually—"

Your stomach drops. “What—stop. Bucky, what are you doing?”

You snatch it from his hands, heat flooding your face, embarrassment turning sharp. “How did you get this?”

He finally meets your eyes. “It’s me,” he says quietly. “It’s always been me.”

You stare at him, uncomprehending.

“I’ve kept every letter,” he continues. “I listened to every song. Read every book. Watched every movie.”

Your head shakes automatically. “No. That doesn’t—what about the fair? You didn’t show. You just—left me in the silence.”

“I was scared,” he says, voice breaking. “I was standing right in front of you, realizing it was you all along and I was terrified.”

“Of what?” you demand, hurt bleeding through.

“Of hoping,” he admits. “Of letting myself believe I could have something, someone, like you.”

The anger drains out of you, replaced by something softer, heavier. You look at him for a long moment. Then, quietly a thought slips into you head, a memory from one of his early letters he once sent you, the one you memorized without realizing why.

“I trace the shape of ‘almost us,’ keep hope tucked safely out of sight. I crave the warmth, I fear the loss, so I hold longing through the night.”

His breath catches. He blushes, stunned and faintly nods. You step closer, eyes flicking to the stack of letters clutched to his chest. “You really kept them all?”

“Every single one,” he says.

You smile, teasing despite the ache. “That’s a lot of commitment for someone who didn’t think he was smart enough.”

He laughs softly, relief threading through it. “Guess I was wrong.”

The space between you closes naturally, like it always should have. When he kisses you, it’s gentle and sure and everything the letters promised, ink finally turning into something real.

You start seeing each other in stolen spaces. Your house, when your dad works late. The lake, when the sun dips low and the air turns cool enough to raise goosebumps on your skin. Quiet afternoons stretched thin, fingers laced together, Bucky’s shoulder always warm and steady against yours.

It's everything and not enough. Summer is running out, and you feel it in everything.

Rebecca notices first.

“You’ve been… distant,” she says one night, sitting cross-legged on your bed while you pretend to read. “Did I do something?”

Guilt hits hard and fast.

“No,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “I’m just—studying. Stressed about exams.”

She watches you for a long moment, unconvinced but trusting anyway. That almost hurts worse.

You hate lying to her. Hate the knot in your chest every time Bucky brushes his thumb over your hand in public and you have to pretend it means nothing. You start worrying less about getting caught and more about what this secrecy is doing to the most important friendship in your life.

Bucky wants to tell her.

“We can’t keep sneaking around,” he says one afternoon by the lake, voice low. “She deserves to know.”

“I can’t,” you whisper. “If this goes wrong, I lose everything. I lose you. I lose her.”

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing away the worry he hates seeing there. “You’re allowed to want things too.”

You almost get caught a few days later.

You’re coming up the steps of Bucky’s house, laughter still clinging to you from the walk home. He kisses you softly, unguarded, right as the front door opens behind him.

“Bucky?”

Rebecca’s voice. You spring apart so fast your heart nearly stops. You duck your head, pretending to retie your shoe while Bucky clears his throat.

“Just—walking her home,” he says.

Rebecca squints but doesn’t push. The door shuts. You don’t breathe again until you’re halfway down the sidewalk. That night, you ask Bucky to meet you at the lake.

The decision tastes like grief.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you say, voice breaking. “We’re going to hurt her.”

He steps closer. “You’re hurting yourself trying to protect everyone else.”

Tears spill before you can stop them. “I’m sorry. I love you—but I can’t.”

He stills. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“That you love me.”

“I can’t,” you whisper, even as your hands clutch his shirt like they already know the truth.

He kisses you anyway, slow, aching, full of everything you’re afraid to lose. You cry into it, happiness and sadness tangling together in salt until you can’t tell which is which.

“I’ll tell her,” you say against his lips. “Tomorrow. Just—please. One more day.”

He nods. Always nods. Always chooses you. You go to the lake to swim that evening, laughing and splashing like kids again. The water glows orange under thes setting sun. Bucky lifts you out easily, sets you on the grass, his hands warm and worshipful, like he’s memorizing you.

The kiss that follows is deeper, unhurried, filled with promises neither of you says out loud. Bucky moves on top of you, holding his weight above you on one forearm as he moves his lips down your jaw and neck. Goosebumps prickle across your skin and a soft gasp slips past your lips when you feel his knee gently nudge your thighs apart, he pulls back to look at you and the sun hits his eyes, reflecting a blue so clear your heart nearly stops in your chest.

"Is this okay?"

You nod because words don't feel like enough, like they can't convey the ever churning tidal wave of love crashing over you again and again. He kisses you again and you let your hands wander, his skin still damp from the lake, letting your fingers glide over his chest and down to his abs with ease.

He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, as if the moment itself might be too bright to look at directly. This feeling that passes between you doesn’t need language. It lives in the way his shoulders finally drop, in the way you whisper his name like a secret kept safely.

You tilt into him, drawn by gravity neither of you fight anymore. His hand settles at your waist, firm now, certain, anchoring himself as much as you. Like if he lets go, he might lose the proof that this is real, that he’s here, and wanted, and allowed to want back.

"Bucky," you breathe out, hips twisting and arching up into him. "Please."

His fingers drift from your waist to your thighs, tracing the damp string of your bathing suit bottoms. A shuddering breath leaving his lips when you push into his touch. He stops for a moment, pulling back to look at you one more time.

Your face is still flushed from the lake, the tears and the heat blooming in your chest.

"Please," you say, reaching up to pull his lips down to yours.

You kiss again and he melts into you like ice cream under the sun, sweetness spilling onto your lips as heat and want rush through your veins, it feels like a sugar high times a thousand. While you want to ride its bliss out until then end, your heart cracks at the thought that there is an end to this.

"What's wrong baby?" Bucky murmurs against your cheek, feeling your body tighten under his. "Listen we don't have to—"

"No," you interuppt, shaking your head. "No it's not that I just… what if Rebecca doesn't want us to be together? What if…"

Bucky kisses you quiet, muttering your name across your lips. "Don't think like that, no matter what happens I'll always be yours, you'll always be my best girl."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your voice a hoarse whisper. "But what—"

"Relax." He kisses the tear streaks off your face. "You're mine." Another kiss. "I'm yours. It's going to be okay."

Your mouth curves to argue but he kisses it shut again. "Relax, baby."

Your heart, mind and body are on three seperate tracks. Heart breaking for the fear that this is it, mind racing with a thousand possible outcomes for tomorrow, all while your body aches and pushes into his touch.

"Bucky," you whisper.

"Shh, just relax pretty girl, my pretty girl." Bucky kisses you like you're the only air his lungs need, his hands drifting back down your body, finding your drawstrings and pulling one side undone.

Your mouth falls open with a whisper of his name, legs trembling as he pushes his hand between them. He pulls the rest of your bathing suit bottoms aside, just enough to expose the heat that's been aching between your thighs.

His thumb brushes the seam of your cunt so gently its a wonder why you jump at the touch. His lips move down your neck and chest and kiss his mark into the skin. His broad fingers slowly stroking you, coaxing a new whimper and whine from your lips with each touch.

"That's it baby," he cooes, kissing down the valley of your breasts before moving to mark his teeth in the soft flesh of each one. "There she is."

With his thumb pressing tight little circles onto your clit you squirm and open for him all at once, hands digging into the towel shielded grass under you. A breathy and strangled whimper slips past your lips, body ignited into flames and quickly burning bright.

"Bucky-"

"I know, pretty girl." He drawls, kissing the pebbled skin of your nipple before dropping his middle finger down your slit, so slick with arousal he hardly meets any resistance as he slides it in. "My pretty baby, it's okay, let go for me."

"Oh god, Buck—y," your hands shoot from the grass and dig into his shoulders, nails leaving behind crescent marks in his skin as white bleeds across your vision. Your thighs close and clench around his hand, hips rolling and bucking into him as you ride up and over the high of your orgasm.

When you finally catch your breath and blink the tears away, Bucky is looking at you like you've donned a halo, eyes glittering with something undescribable as he looks down at you.

"Just when I thought you couldn't get any prettier." He mutters under his breath, leaning down to kiss you before you can even think of a rebuttal.

Desire and need now course through your veins, quieting any figment of doubt in your mind as you kiss him back with fervent want. Your hands pull him flush against you, not bothering with the space needed to pull the rest of your swimsuits off, just rutting into him as he pulls himself from his shorts, the thick length poking into your thigh.

You shudder and his cock hasn't even come close to you, the weight of it brushing your skin making you whimper shamelessly.

"You keep relaxing for me baby," he hums, releasing himself from your needy hold to sit back on his haunches and take off the rest off your suits. "Gonna take real good care of my girl."

Bucky unties the other side of your suit and lets the fabric give way to you cunt, all the lake water has since dried on your skin save for the aching wet mess between your thighs. Your own cum coated across your lips and onto your inner thighs, shining in the growing moonlight. He teases you, sliding his cock between your dripping cunt, the tip bumping and rubbing your clit making you thrash and beg for more.

"Please Bucky, please god stop teasing me-" you whine, hips uselessly jutting up as he holds you down, watching your pussy flutter and clench on nothing.

"Breathe," he mutters, leaning over you until your noses brush, his forehead resting against yours like a promise. You folloe his words, taking in a breath unitl every sense is overrun with Bucky. The smell of his colonge not quite washed out by the lake, the sound of his stuttering breath, the stretch of him pushing deep inside, the look of his eyes locking with yours—looking at you like he's in heaven.

He's everywhere, tears sting at your eyes as you bask in it. In everything, in him, in the perfect summer you had, the love that now holds your heart for him.

Slow, deep thrusts roll into faster and deeper ones, sweat beading on your skin where lake water once sat, heat thrumming through your veins as pleasure rather than fear. Bucky's hands cover every inch of you, brushing your hair back, squeezing your thighs and holding them open under him.

"Feels so good pretty girl," he grunts, his lips at your neck. "So wet 'n tight for me, taking me so good."

Your body hangs on the edge of nirvana, each snap of his hips into yours accompained by a messy open mouthed kiss, teeth and spit smearing its way across your skin. He groans your name, feeling your thighs quiver and shake like before.

It sneaks up on your faster than before, a coil quickly winding itself low and deep within you only to be undone by his increasingly erractic thrusts, the only coherent words you can manage being the one thing that undoes Bucky himself.

"James,"

The wanton whipser of his name brushing his ears sends him over the edge right behind you, grunting a feral, mangled noise of your name, fucking you through both your highs until he loses control of his hips and comes to a low and slow stop.

For a while, you two are suspended in air, floating through the nigh without a course in mind. A soft exhale against your neck sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with growing cold and brings you back down to earth. Being this close makes the rest of the world feel distant and unimportant.

You feel his lips brush your temple, soft and unrushed. Time seems to stretch, every second soft and silver under the moonlight. Bucky cleans you up the best he can, even tying your swimsuit back together before pulling you back into his arms.

When you finally lie together on the grass, foreheads touching, hearts still racing in sync, it feels like crossing a threshold—like something precious has finally been allowed to exist.

You tell Rebecca together.

You sit on the couch with your hands twisted in your lap, Bucky beside you, close enough that his knee presses into yours like an anchor. Rebecca stands at first, pacing, arms folded tight across her chest like she’s bracing for impact.

You tell her everything.

About the pen-pal program. About the letters. About not knowing it was each other at first—and how it didn’t matter once feelings crept in anyway. About the fair. About the lake. About how hard you tried to do the right thing and how badly you failed at it.

Your voice shakes. You don’t cry. You’re too scared of what crying might do.

Rebecca is quiet for a long time. When she finally speaks, her voice is tight. “So you just… lied to me.”

Before you can answer, Bucky moves.

“Don’t,” he says gently but firmly. “Don’t be mad at her.”

Rebecca snaps her head toward him. “You don’t get to—”

“I do,” he interrupts, not raising his voice, but grounding it. “Because this was on me.”

You turn to him, startled. “Bucky—”

“I knew first,” he admits. “I put it together before she ever did. The locket. The letters. Her handwriting.” He swallows. “And I didn’t say anything.”

Rebecca’s anger falters, confusion cutting through it. “Why?”

“Because I knew,” he says quietly, “that if you knew, she’d choose you. Every time. No hesitation.”

Your breath catches.

“I was selfish,” he continues. “I wanted her to myself. Even if it was just for a little while. She was—” His voice softens, eyes flicking to you. “She is the best girl. My best girl. And I wasn’t ready to give that up.”

The room goes still. Rebecca looks between you, really looks this time. The way Bucky’s shoulders curve slightly toward you. The way your hand has found his without you realizing it. The way neither of you looks guilty so much as terrified of losing her.

Her shoulders sag.

“This isn’t like before,” she says slowly. “You know that, right?”

You nod immediately. “I know. I never wanted—”

“I know,” Rebecca cuts in, rubbing her face. “Those girls wanted him. You just… found each other.”

She exhales, long and tired. “I’m still upset. I won’t pretend I’m not. You hurt me. Both of you did.”

Your chest tightens, but you don’t look away.

“But,” she adds, quieter now, “I can see it. I can see that you love each other, that this isn’t a phase or a secret little thrill.”

Bucky nods once. “I love her. I won’t mess this up.”

Rebecca studies him, then you. Finally, she shakes her head with a small, reluctant huff. “God. I can’t believe this is how my life turned out.”

Then, pointing a finger between the two of you, she adds, “It’s okay. I mean it. But if I catch you sucking each other’s face off in my kitchen, I will reconsider.”

You let out a shaky laugh, relief crashing over you so hard it almost knocks you sideways.

Bucky grins, unabashed. “Fair.”

Rebecca rolls her eyes, but there’s a ghost of a smile there too. “You’re both idiots,” she mutters. “But… you’re my idiots.”

And for the first time since summer began, nothing feels like it’s about to fall apart.

Fall comes in quietly. Not all at once, not with some dramatic announcement, just cooler mornings and leaves turning the color of old gold, the air sharpening around the edges. Summer slips away without a fight, and for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re being left behind by it.

You and Bucky don’t hide anymore.

He walks you home with his hand openly wrapped around yours. He waits for you after class, leaning against his car like he belongs there. At Rebecca’s house, he kisses your temple without checking the doorway first, and when she groans dramatically from the kitchen, you both just laugh.

“Take it to literally anywhere else,” she calls. “I’m eating.”

Bucky grins and steals you away anyway.

School starts in earnest, and with it comes the familiar weight on your shoulders, but it’s lighter now, shared. You help Bucky with his classes in the evenings, notebooks spread across your bed or the kitchen table, your handwriting filling the margins with explanations and encouragement.

“Okay,” you say one night, tapping the paper. “Read the question out loud.”

He does, slow and deliberate.

“You already know this,” you add gently. “You just don’t trust yourself.”

He looks up at you, searching your face. “You really think that?”

“I know it.”

And he starts to believe you.

His grades improve again steadily, honestly. Not perfect, but real. When he brings home a test with a mark higher than he ever thought possible, he hands it to you like it might disappear if he holds it too long.

“You did that,” he says.

You shake your head. “You did.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, reverent. “Couldn’t have without you.”

Some evenings, when the work is done and the world feels too loud, you escape to the lake. Fall paints everything softer there. The water reflects the trees like a secret it’s keeping. You sit with your feet in the grass, leaning into Bucky’s side as he pulls a folded page from his jacket pocket.

“I wrote something,” he says, suddenly shy.

“You always do,” you tease softly.

He reads anyway.

His voice is low and steady, words shaped by longing and growth and quiet hope. Poems about choosing to stay. About learning to believe in good things. About a girl who taught him that being seen doesn’t have to hurt.

You listen like it’s a gift, because it is.

"So he stayed when instinct said run, stayed when his hands began to shake. He learned that hope is not a weakness— it’s a risk you bravely take.

Now he believes in the quiet good things: morning laughter, a hand held tight. He believes that staying can be gentle, that being known can feel like light.

Because a girl once taught his heart a truth it never knew how to say— that sometimes the bravest thing of all is choosing, every day, to stay."

When he finishes, you don’t clap or joke. You just rest your head on his shoulder and say, “That’s my favorite one.”

He smiles, small and real.

As fall deepens, the pressure you once felt, that if you weren’t excelling, you were nothing, starts to loosen its grip. You still work hard. You still care. But now, when you stumble, there’s someone there to catch you before the fear takes hold.

One night, wrapped in blankets on the porch, Bucky murmurs, “You know… I don’t think I’d have made it through this without you.”

You turn to him, serious. “You would’ve. You just didn’t know it yet.”

He studies you, eyes warm in the glow of the porch light. “I’m really glad I found you anyway.”

You kiss him, slow and sure, leaves skittering across the ground around you.

The ending doesn’t come all at once. It arrives gently, the way good things do.

Rebecca gets the job on a Tuesday.

She bursts into the apartment breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in a way you haven’t seen in a while. “I got it,” she says, like she doesn’t quite trust the words yet. “In the city. Full time. Benefits. Everything.”

You scream. Actually scream.

You’re on her before she can brace, arms around her neck, jumping in place. Bucky laughs from the doorway, shaking his head as he steps in to join the chaos.

“I knew they’d be stupid not to hire you,” he says.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too hard to hide it. “You’re both biased.”

Moving happens fast after that.

Boxes stack up. Clothes get sorted. Your childhood slowly folds itself into cardboard and tape. Rebecca packs her life into neat, labeled squares, ready for something bigger. You help where you can, sitting on the floor beside her, handing her things you forgot existed.

On her last night, the three of you sit cross-legged in the empty living room, takeout spread between you, walls echoing a little too much.

“You’re really doing this,” you say softly.

“So are you,” she replies, nudging your knee. “Tiny apartment. Domestic bliss.”

Bucky pretends to wince. “Hey. It’s a nice tiny apartment.”

You laugh, then grow serious, turning to Rebecca. “Promise me something.”

She tilts her head. “What?”

“Write to me,” you say. “Like—really write. Letters. Not just texts.”

Her eyes soften. “You’re joking, right?”

“I’m not. Letters are important.”

She exhales a laugh, shaking her head. “Of course I will. You started a whole relationship with pen pals. I’d be stupid not to.”

Bucky smirks. “She’s not wrong.”

Rebecca stands, brushing imaginary dust off her jeans, and pulls you into a hug—tight, familiar, grounding. “We’re not losing each other,” she murmurs. “We’re just… expanding.”

You hold her a little longer than necessary.

The apartment you and Bucky move into is small. One bedroom. A couch that’s seen better days. A kitchen where you bump into each other constantly.

It’s perfect.

You unpack slowly, music playing, windows open to let the city noise in. You hang his poems on the fridge. He lines your books along the windowsill. At night, you fall asleep tangled together, listening to a life you’re building hum quietly around you.

On the first evening, boxes still half-open, you sit on the floor eating pizza straight from the box.

“Hey,” Bucky says, watching you with that soft look that still surprises you. “You happy?”

You look around. At the mess. At the future. At him.

“Yeah,” you say, sure. “I really am.”

It was the least welcoming greeting you’d ever received. The word came out as if he were legally compelled to say it — as though someone had a gun to his back, mouthing say the nice thing whilst he white-knuckled his way through the syllable.

You filled your water bottle in silence, fully aware of him watching you before you finally made your escape.

That, as far as you were concerned, was the entire thesis of Bucky: hostile on arrival, aggressive on eye contact, and thoroughly allergic to basic human warmth.

Case closed.

Nothing about the compound gave you any reason to revise that opinion.

Over the following weeks, you accumulated evidence much like a prosecutor building a trial — methodically and without the slightest interest in the defense. He glared at you across the briefing room table, just as he did in the lift. He glowered at you in the corridor while you were simply trying to reach the gym, continuing the routine once you were inside.

On one occasion, he held a door open for you. This might have passed for a kind gesture, had his expression not suggested he was actively weighing up whether to slam it shut on your hand. Passing through quickly, you muttered a thank you, subsequently spending the next ten minutes wondering what you’d done to personally offend a hundred-and-six-year-old super soldier.

To make matters worse, this treatment seemed exclusively reserved for you.

Sam gave Bucky relentless, industrial-grade grief on a daily basis, receiving nothing worse than a tired sigh in return. Natasha spoke to him in brief Russian phrases that made him almost  — almost — soften around the eyes. Steve, naturally, could coax out something adjacent to a smile, provided the lighting was right and the conversation touched on baseball.

You, meanwhile, received the murder stare.

Consequently, you took the only reasonable course of action: you decided to hate him back. Nothing loud or dramatic — you were a professional, after all. Yet if Bucky insisted on looking at you like you were gum on his tactical boot, you were more than happy to match his energy. You ceased saying hello, just as you stopped making eye contact. Whenever his name arose in briefings, your gaze remained glued to the nearest screen, offering nothing beyond what was strictly required.

In your professional opinion, it was a perfectly proportional response. He had started it, after all.

Except, as it turned out, he hadn't started anything at all.

0010 — two

Steve, for all his tactical brilliance, possessed the interpersonal radar of a golden retriever at a dog park. Which is to say: he assumed everyone was having as good a time as he was, believing that if they weren't, they simply required a more intriguing chew toy.

"I want you two running point on Riga," he said, tapping something on his tablet without looking up. "Buck, your ground coverage coupled with their aerial support makes for a clean overlap. No blind spots."

You felt your left eyelid twitch.

"Seems efficient," Bucky remarked from across the table. He spoke in that low, even tone you had long since catalogued as dangerously neutral, which was, in reality, merely his natural way of speaking.

"Incredibly efficient," Steve agreed, radiating the enthusiasm of a man who genuinely loved logistics. "You'll insert here, sweep the perimeter in tandem, and report back. Forty-eight hours, tops."

You opened your mouth to suggest — diplomatically, calmly, and with exquisite professionalism — that perhaps literally anyone else on the roster might prove a better fit. Clint. Wanda. A reasonably trained Labrador. However, Steve was already moving on to exfiltration windows, whilst the moment sailed past like a ship you hadn't boarded.

Bucky glanced at you across the table. Although you didn't look back, you could feel it regardless: the stare. That ever-present, searing, what did I do to you in a past life stare, which you had fully reinterpreted as I am imagining your demise in vivid detail.

Riga was cold and grey, smelling faintly of rain-wet concrete. Bucky crouched behind a low wall, running through the sweep route as though he had memorised every sewer grate in the Eastern Bloc. Which, to be fair, he probably had.

"If we cut through the service corridor on the east side," he said, tracing a line on the projected map between you, "we avoid the camera cluster at the northwest junction. That shaves off thirty seconds and gives us a cleaner sweep."

It was a good call — objectively and tactically sound. Naturally, you hated it.

"Alternatively," you countered, "we take the northwest junction. The camera cluster has a six-second rotation gap offering more than enough cover, whilst saving us from rerouting through a corridor we haven't physically cleared."

Bucky looked at you. There was that look again: that infuriating, immovable expression. "The corridor's been cleared on satellite."

"Satellite isn't boots on the ground, a fact I'd have thought you of all people would appreciate."

A brief pause followed. He blinked once, slowly and deliberately, like a cat processing new information it had already deemed irrelevant.

"Right," he said simply. "Northwest junction. Six-second gap."

There was no argument, no pushback, and no retaliatory escalation. Desperate for him to fight you on it — to give you something concrete to push against — you were met instead with immediate agreement. He adjusted and moved on. You couldn't even determine whether his baseline glare had shifted, as it remained entirely one temperature: a perpetual overcast with no forecast of change.

Infuriating.

Taking the northwest junction proved successful; the six-second gap worked seamlessly. Bucky offered no comment afterwards, a silence you promptly interpreted as resentful, even if, by any objective measure, it was merely quiet efficiency.

By hour thirty, you had swept two-thirds of the perimeter, flagged three points of interest, and exchanged roughly forty words that weren't operationally necessary. Bucky held position whenever required, adjusted without complaint when you called an audible, and covered your flank with the mechanical precision of someone who had been doing precisely that for the better part of a century. 

When you snapped at his suggestion to double back on the north quadrant — "We've already cleared that, so unless you want to walk the same block a third time, let's finish before the century's out" — he studied you for a long moment, uttered a brief "Copy," and carried on.

By every metric that mattered, you worked brilliantly together. That was easily the most annoying aspect of the entire operation.

Steve's check-in crackled through the comms at hour thirty-six. "How's it looking out there?"

"Clean sweep," Bucky reported. "On schedule."

"Good to hear. Really good. You two are a natural fit, so I'm going to keep this pairing going."

The line clicked off before you could object.

Somewhere across the rooftop, Bucky shifted his weight without making a sound, having never once felt the need to fill a silence. You, meanwhile, were mentally drafting a strongly worded letter to Steve regarding the actual definition of the word natural.

The extraction window opened at dawn. It was a simple retrieval — collecting an intel package from a secure drop followed by a confirmation sweep for surveillance, wrapping up before the city woke up properly. It was the kind of job that barely qualified as a mission, resembling more of an errand, assuming your errands typically involved fake passports and a concealed weapon in your waistband.

Bucky moved through the drop site with an efficient, practiced quiet. Covering the perimeter, you tagged two potential cameras before feeding him the all-clear. He retrieved the package, confirmed the seal, and stowed it without ceremony.

"Clean," he reported over the comms.

"Obviously," you shot back, unable to help yourself.

The walk to the vehicle spanned six blocks through early-morning foot traffic. Bucky fell into step beside you — maintaining not a companionable proximity, but rather the tactically sound distance of a partner keeping visual range. Keeping your eyes fixed forward, you occasionally caught the peripheral flicker of him looking over, despite his efforts to look straight ahead as well.

At the fourth block, he spoke. "You did good work on the north sweep."

You nearly tripped. It wasn't a physical stumble, but rather a sudden jolt behind your ribs, as the compliment arrived so entirely stripped of inflection that it took a full three seconds to confirm it wasn't an insult.

"Thanks," you replied, as though the word were costing you money.

He offered a single nod before looking ahead once more. His expression remained entirely unchanged throughout the exchange — neither when he spoke, nor when you responded, nor now. It was the same furrowed brow, the same hard-set jaw, and the same general aura of a man who held a personal grievance against the concept of sunlight.

Walking the remaining two blocks in silence, you climbed into the vehicle and pulled out of Riga without incident.

In the passenger seat, Bucky stared out of the window, thinking about absolutely nothing in particular.

In the driver's seat, you white-knuckled the steering wheel, contemplating how deeply, profoundly, and cosmically unfair it was that Steve had designated your personal nemesis as your ideal work partner.

Bucky glanced over at you once more. You caught it in the corner of your eye — the slight turn of his head and the weight of his attention settling on the side of your face like a physical presence.

He looked away a moment later. Had you been watching, you might have caught a fleeting micro-expression that, on a more animated face, could have passed for confusion: a subtle narrowing of the eyes accompanied by a barely-there tilt of the head. It was the physical equivalent of a quiet huh.

Yet you were not watching. You were driving, nursing your resentment, and dreading the next mission you would inevitably be shackled to him for.

Bucky turned his gaze back out of the window.

Feisty, he thought, though not in explicit words. It was more of a general registration of facts: Teammate. Competent. Annoyed for some reason. Right then.

He let the matter drop.

0011 — three

The second phase of Riga went sideways on account of Bucky, and he had the decency to admit it — which made the entire situation infinitely worse.

It should have been straightforward. The intel package retrieved from the drop site pointed to a secondary location: a warehouse on the industrial fringe of Vecriga, flagged for potential weapons caching. Steve wanted confirmation before committing a full team, meaning it remained just the two of you — still purely recon, still strictly a matter of looking and reporting.

Bucky took the south entrance whilst you took the north — a standard split providing clean coverage without anything overly elaborate. Having swept your half in twelve minutes and tagged two points of interest, you reported clearly, subsequently waiting for his confirmation.

It failed to arrive.

What came instead was the muffled crack of a door being forced open from the inside. This was followed by three seconds of silence that felt significantly longer, before Bucky’s voice cut through the comms, clipped and flat: "Contact. Four hostiles, south corridor. I tripped a sensor."

You were already on the move. "You tripped a sensor?"

"There was a secondary grid. It wasn't in the schematics."

"So check for a secondary grid!"

"I'm aware of the oversight." A brief pause ensued, accompanied by the sound of distant, contained gunfire. "Heading to you. Thirty seconds."

He burst through the connecting corridor like a freight train with security clearance — fast, controlled, without a single wasted movement, yet carrying four exceptionally motivated hostiles funnelling in behind him. He had dropped two already, though the remaining four had evidently summoned reinforcements.

"An oversight," you hissed, falling into position beside him behind a concrete support column. "You call six armed hostiles an oversight?"

"I call the sensor an oversight; the hostiles are merely a consequence." Checking his magazine with a mechanical click, he remained as calm as a man sorting his morning post. "I ought to have caught it. That's on me."

There it was: no excuse, no deflection, and no complaints about incomplete schematics or how it could have happened to anyone. It was simply a clean, unvarnished admission of fault, delivered with the same flat affect he applied to everything else — as though accountability were merely another line item on the operational checklist.

You wanted to strangle him.

You wanted to seize him by the front of his tactical vest and shake him until something other than that granite composure gave way, purely because he had no right to be so utterly reasonable about it.

How dare he own his mistake with quiet professionalism when you had been actively gearing up for a proper row?

You had an entire speech prepared — reckless, sloppy, typical — only for him to dismantle it in two short sentences by simply agreeing with you.

"I'm going to kill you," you said.

"After the hostiles," he replied, which might have passed for a joke, had his face offered any confirmation.

They advanced in pairs. The warehouse consisted entirely of long sightlines and sparse cover — a layout ill-suited for defence and even worse for retreat, leaving forward progression as the sole option. 

Bucky moved left, drawing fire toward the heavier cover near the loading bay, whilst you veered right to utilise the elevated walkway for a tactical angle. For thirty seconds, the response was clean and coordinated — the precise sort of synchronisation Steve would have had framed and hung on a wall.

Then the third pair flanked wide, resulting in one of them getting behind you.

You heard it before you saw it: the scrape of a boot against the metal grating of the walkway — far too close and coming from the wrong direction. Spinning round, you fired and caught him in the shoulder, yet his momentum carried him forward as a burst from his automatic weapon chewed through the railing to your left.

Dropping off the walkway to avoid the spray — rolling through a two-metre fall purely on instinct — you came up in the open on the warehouse floor, stranded between two columns of cover with nothing but concrete dust and bad options.

The remaining hostile on the upper level held the high ground. You could see him repositioning, his barrel swinging round to track your movement. Meanwhile, the nearest cover stood four paces away, which was roughly two paces more than you had time for.

At that moment, Bucky hit you from the side like a wall with a pulse.

It wasn't a tackle, nor was it a shove. It was something altogether more deliberate: his arm wrapping round your waist as his body pivoted to place himself between you and the muzzle flash, dragging you both behind the nearest column in a single, brutal motion that briefly lifted your feet off the ground. Your back struck the concrete just as his chest slammed against yours. His left arm braced against the wall beside your head, his metal fingers digging shallow grooves into the surface with a sound guaranteed to haunt your next several attempts at sleep.

He fired over your shoulder without once looking away from you. Two shots rang out, followed by the heavy thud of something hitting the floor above.

Silence settled over the warehouse like dust after a demolition.

You were breathing heavily; he was not.

His heartbeat against your collarbone remained steady, measured, and offensively calm — the resting rhythm of a man whose circulatory system simply refused to acknowledge combat as a cardiovascular event. His face sat inches from yours as he scanned past you, his eyes tracking the upper walkway, the exits, and the corners, conducting a very focused threat assessment.

You, on the other hand, could register nothing else.

He was warm, which served as your first entirely unhelpful observation. Beneath the Kevlar, the grime, and the faint metallic tang of discharged rounds, he felt warm, broad, and solid in a manner resembling architecture rather than a person.

Your hands were resting on his vest again — a recurring habit you genuinely needed to address — and from this distance, you could see that his eyelashes were dark and unreasonably long. Furthermore, a small scar sat at the corner of his jaw that you had never previously noticed, owing to the fact that you had never been this close, alongside the small detail that you hated him.

You hated him — that remained vital. You were furious.

He had tripped a sensor, dragged you into a firefight, and then possessed the sheer audacity to throw himself in front of a bullet meant for you as if it were nothing. Protecting your body with his was apparently just another Tuesday to him, and now he stood there with his arm caging you in, his ridiculously muscled chest pressed against yours, leaving you absolutely, categorically, and without question hot, bothered and —

"Clear," Bucky said, looking down at you.

The stare remained identical to always — completely unreadable — except that from seven centimetres away, it felt less like I want you dead and more like I am looking at you because you are here and I am thorough. "You good?"

"Peachy," you managed.

Stepping back, he holstered his weapon. He offered you a single, efficient once-over — not lingering or appreciative, but rather a simple field check akin to inspecting a piece of kit after a drop — before turning to clear the rest of the warehouse.

"Sorry about the sensor," he called over his shoulder, already moving away.

You stood there for a moment, back pressed against the column, vest askew, with your heart executing something architecturally unsound in your chest. Your face felt hot, your hands felt foolish, and somewhere amidst the wreckage of your higher reasoning, a small, traitorous voice pointed out that pure American muscle was not a phrase you ought to be associating with a man you'd spent months despising.

You instructed the voice to shut up. Naturally, it refused.

By the time you caught up with him at the south exit, you had reassembled your composure into something functional, if not entirely convincing. Bucky crouched by the door, checking the exterior. As you approached, he looked up with that exact, unchanging, immovable expression and said, "We should report the secondary grid to Steve. My error; I'll log it."

"Damn right you will," you replied, albeit with significantly less venom than intended.

He nodded once before turning his attention back to the door, completely failing to notice that your ears were bright red — because Bucky, as a rule, simply did not notice things like 'ears'.

0100 — four

The safehouse was Steve's idea, because of course it was.

"Sit tight," he instructed over comms, speaking with the serene authority of a man issuing orders from a heated facility several countries away. "The firefight flagged local attention, so I need twenty-four hours to reroute extraction without drawing eyes. There's a safehouse logged in the system — Bucky, you know the one off Avotu iela?"

"I know it," Bucky replied.

"Great. Supplies should still be stocked from the last rotation. Hunker down, stay off the radar, and I'll have you out by tomorrow evening."

The line went dead. You stared at the comm in your hand as though it had personally betrayed you.

Twenty-four hours. In a safehouse. With Bucky Barnes.

Steve would answer for this. Not today, nor tomorrow, but one day, in a time and place of your choosing, Steven Grant Rogers would look you in the eye and reckon with the cumulative consequences of his logistical enthusiasm.

The safehouse was a third-floor walk-up in a residential block that looked like every other on the street — beige concrete, narrow windows, and a front door requiring a keycode that Bucky punched in from memory without hesitation.

Inside, it was sparse in the way all safehouses were sparse: functional furniture, blackout curtains, a bathroom with aggressive water pressure and no hot water, a kitchen stocked with tin cans and dry pasta, alongside, inexplicably, a full spice rack.

There was only one bedroom. However, you had yet to discover that detail.

Bucky executed a sweep of the flat in under two minutes — checking windows, exits, sightlines, and the building's stairwell — before returning to the main room with a nod that signified clear and absolutely nothing else.

Having taken up position at the far end of the kitchen counter with your arms crossed, you watched him move through the space with the efficiency of someone who had spent a great deal of time in rooms he didn't wish to be in.

"I'll make something," he said, already opening cupboards.

"I'm not hungry."

Your stomach growled with immaculate comedic timing. Bucky paused, hand on a cupboard door, yet he offered no comment and made no attempt to smile. He simply resumed opening the cupboard, which was somehow far worse than if he had laughed outright.

He proceeded to make soup.

You didn't know what you had expected — something perfunctory, perhaps, assembled with the same grim pragmatism he brought to everything else. A tin of broth heated in a pot, perhaps with some pasta thrown in for caloric necessity.

Instead, Bucky stood at the narrow safehouse cooker and diced an onion with a knife never intended for onions, moving with the quiet focus of someone who knew precisely what he was doing and had no intention of explaining why.

He sautéed garlic — actual garlic, peeled and minced, from a bulb he had found in the crisper drawer alongside potatoes that had no right being that fresh in a safehouse. He added tinned tomatoes, a selection of dried herbs from the inexplicable spice rack, the potatoes cut into even cubes, and a splash of something from a bottle bearing a Czech label that might have been vinegar, wine, or lighter fluid.

It smelled incredible.

You watched this unfold from your position at the counter — still with arms crossed, still glaring — feeling the mounting indignation of a person whose nemesis was failing to behave according to the established narrative.

Enemies did not make soup. Enemies did not dice onions with careful, practised hands. Enemies did not stir a pot with a wooden spoon, taste from the rim, and subsequently add more salt with the measured consideration of someone who understood that soup was a dish worth getting right.

He set a bowl in front of you without ceremony before sitting down across the narrow table with his own and picking up his spoon.

You glared at the soup. The soup failed to glare back, sitting there instead and steaming gently, smelling like something a grandmother would make if she’d happened to have a vibranium arm and the emotional range of a concrete wall.

You ate the soup.

It was — and you would take this to your grave before admitting it aloud — delicious. The potatoes were tender without being mushy. The broth possessed depth — actual depth, featuring layers of flavour that had no business existing in a meal assembled from safehouse scraps by a man who looked as though he were being forced at gunpoint to participate in civilian life.

Across the table, Bucky ate in silence, just as you ate in silence. The only sound was the scrape of spoons against ceramic alongside the distant hum of Riga's evening traffic filtering through the blackout curtains.

You were glaring at him over the rim of the bowl.

You knew you were glaring and found yourself unable to stop. Every spoonful felt like a personal offence — not owing to the soup, which was infuriatingly above reproach, but purely on principle. He had no right to be good at this. He had no right to sit there, eating soup he had made with his own two hands — one of which was made of metal and had attempted to kill multiple heads of state — looking for all the world like a man entirely at peace with his evening.

He wasn't at peace with his evening; he was simply eating soup.

Yet he did notice you were quiet — quieter than usual, which was quite a feat given that your usual baseline around him sat somewhere between terse and legally admissible silence. Glancing up once, he caught the edge of your expression, filing it away as he filed most things about you: without reaching any conclusions whatsoever.

Rough day, he thought. The warehouse was a lot. The sensor business rattled them. Fair enough.

It had not occurred to Bucky, at any point in the preceding months, that your hostility towards him was personal.

Having considered and dismissed several theories — that you were private, focused, cold towards everyone, or merely adjusting to the team — he had landed on the most generous possible interpretation every single time. The notion that you simply didn't like him, specifically as an individual, had never crossed his mind, as Bucky did not assign himself enough importance in other people's emotional landscapes for that to feel plausible.

You finished the soup, as did he. Taking both bowls to the sink without asking, he washed them by hand, thorough and unhurried, whilst you sat at the table staring at the back of his head, trying desperately to maintain the structural integrity of a grudge that was developing hairline fractures.

He dried the bowls, put them away, and wiped down the counter.

You hated him — obviously. However, the soup had been exceptionally good, and the counter was immaculate.

"I'll take the first watch," he said, settling onto the couch with a clear sightline to the front door.

"Fine."

"Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be a long extract."

"I know."

He looked at you. You looked away first — a new development, and one that neither of you chose to examine.

0101 — five

The bedroom situation revealed itself with the slow, inevitable horror of a punchline that ought to have been obvious from the start.

There was a single bed: full-sized, pushed against the far wall, and made up with military corners alongside a single wool blanket that looked as though it had been government-issued during a war — quite possibly the one Bucky had personally fought in. Accompanying it were a single pillow, one nightstand, and an overhead light with a pull chain that lent the entire space the ambience of an interrogation cell.

You stood in the doorway whilst Bucky remained directly behind you. Neither of you spoke for a long, damning moment.

"I'll take the floor," he offered.

"No."

"It's not a problem. I've slept on worse."

"I said no." Turning round — a mistake, as it turned out, given his proximity — you had to look up to meet his eyes, which were performing their usual trick of boring into you as if you owed him money. "I'll take the floor. You take the bed."

Bucky's brow furrowed. Or rather, it furrowed further — it was already permanently set that way by default, yet it deepened to a degree you hadn't previously known was architecturally possible. "That doesn't make sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

"You're smaller than me. The bed is more efficient for —"

"I don't care about efficiency, Barnes. Take the bed."

"I'm not going to let you sleep on the floor."

"You're not letting me do anything. I'm choosing the floor. Independently. Of my own volition."

This was — a fact you were distantly aware of even in the moment — not actually about chivalry, comfort, or any rational metric of who ought to sleep where.

It was entirely about the fact that Bucky had suggested the bed, and you would rather lie on cold hardwood until your spine fused than accept a single accommodation from a man who had spent months staring at you as if you were a code he was trying to crack, only to decide you weren't worth the effort.

Bucky looked at you, and you looked back at him. The standoff held for a stretched, ridiculous beat — two highly trained operatives with a combined century of combat experience, thoroughly deadlocked over a mattress.

"We could —" He stopped, recalibrated, and started again carefully, in the manner of a person approaching a suggestion they already know will go badly. "We could share it."

"Absolutely not."

"It's a full. There's room."

"There is not room."

There was, objectively, room.

A further eleven minutes of negotiation ensued — eleven minutes that could have been spent sleeping, maintaining perimeter awareness, or doing literally anything other than arguing about a bed with a man whose face hadn't changed expression once throughout the entire exchange.

In the end, the solution was reached not through compromise, but through mutual exhaustion: you on the left side, him on the right, with a gap between you wide enough to accommodate a respectably sized third person, or possibly a coffin, which felt appropriate.

You lay on your back, rigid, arms at your sides, staring at the ceiling. The blanket covered you to mid-chest. Although your boots were off, everything else remained on; you were certainly not changing clothes in a safehouse with Bucky on the other side of a bed you were sharing against every instinct you possessed.

He lay on his back, equally rigid, with hands folded over his stomach as he too stared at the ceiling. The blanket covered him to the waist. Having removed his jacket and gloves but nothing else, the plates of his left arm caught the ambient glow of the streetlamp outside in the dim light filtering through the window.

Silence followed — a long, heavy, weighted silence.

Steve Rogers, you thought, with the focus and clarity of a prayer, I am going to find you, and I am going to make you understand what you've done. When the history books document your demise, they will note that it was thoroughly deserved.

Somewhere beyond the curtains, Riga hummed its quiet nighttime hum. A car passed, a dog barked, and the kitchen refrigerator cycled on with a low rattle that settled into white noise.

Bucky shifted. Not towards you — if anything, he pressed further into his own edge, as though attempting to grant the gap between you additional square footage through sheer force of will. The mattress dipped slightly with the movement before settling into stillness once more.

More silence followed. You could hear him breathing — a steady, measured rhythm suggesting either deep calm or trained control. Unable to tell which, it bothered you that you were listening closely enough to wonder.

"Can I ask you something?"

His voice was quiet. It wasn't soft — Bucky didn't do soft, or if he did, you had never been granted access to it — yet it was low and careful. He directed his gaze at the ceiling, speaking in the manner of someone who had determined that eye contact would prove a tactical error.

"What?" you said, flat and with your guard firmly up.

A pause followed while he chose his words with the deliberation of a man disarming a device he didn't fully understand — which, in a sense, he was.

"Why do you glare at me?"

The question landed in the dark between you like a stone dropped into still water: simple, direct, and genuinely, painfully confused. It was neither accusatory nor hurt, but merely curious — like a puzzle he had been turning over in his hands for months and had finally decided to open here, in the dark, lying on his back and addressing the ceiling, having apparently calculated that looking at you while asking would make whatever was already wrong significantly worse.

You didn't answer immediately, far too blindsided by the fact that he had noticed. This was insane in retrospect because, of course he had noticed — you had been glaring at the man with the intensity of a sustained laser for the better part of six months.

"Why do I glare at you?" you repeated, as though the question had been delivered in a language you didn't speak.

"Yeah." Still staring at the ceiling, still careful. "I've been — I don't think I've done anything to you. I've tried to run through it, and I can't find the point where I —" He paused. "I've been professional. I've followed protocol, and I've done everything by the handbook. Yet you look at me like I've murdered your cat."

"Because you glare at me!"

It came out louder than intended. You felt the bed shift as he reacted —not flinching, but merely offering a slight turn of his head, which he immediately corrected back to facing the ceiling. "You've glared at me since my first day at the compound. You looked at me like I'd committed a federal crime simply by walking into the kitchen. Every briefing, every corridor, every — you just stare at me, Barnes, as if I've personally wronged your bloodline. So yes, I glare back. What did you expect?"

Silence.

A long, heavy silence.

The sort of silence that possessed a distinct shape.

"Oh," Bucky said.

A single syllable, loaded with the slow, dawning weight of a revelation he hadn't seen coming, precisely because it had never once occurred to him as a possibility.

You heard him exhale through his nose — neither a sigh nor a laugh, but something in between that sounded like a man arriving at a destination he wished he hadn't.

"That's —" He stopped, then started again. "That's just my face."

"What?"

"That's how I look." His voice had grown careful again, though in a different register now — less disarming-a-bomb and more confessing to a crime he hadn't realised he'd committed. "Sam told me about it last year. He said I — the word he used was intense. I've been working on it."

A beat passed.

"Apparently, I have not been successful," he added, with the quiet devastation of a man confronting a failed self-improvement project. "My sincere apologies."

You lay there motionless, staring at the ceiling Bucky had been using as a conversational safe harbour, feeling the entire scaffolding of the last six months begin to buckle.

That was simply his face.

The glare, the stare, the flat, searing, unblinking hostility around which you had constructed an entire narrative of enmity — it was merely his face. It wasn't directed at you, nor was it directed at anyone else. It was simply the natural resting state of a man whose features had been frozen, thawed, wiped, reset, and reassembled enough times that they had settled on murder as their factory default.

He had been working on it. Sam had told him, and he had tried. He had been making an active, conscious effort to look less like he was plotting the downfall of everyone in his immediate vicinity, yet the gap between his attempt and his result was apparently so microscopic that you hadn't detected a single pixel of difference.

"Barnes," you said slowly.

"If it helps, I — it's not intentional. It's not — I'm not thinking hostile thoughts when I look at you. I'm usually not thinking anything specific. I'm just..."

"Looking."

"Looking. Yeah."

Another silence descended, though this one differed markedly — less loaded and more bewildered, representing the shared quiet of two people arriving at the same understanding from opposite ends of a very long, highly unnecessary misunderstanding.

"I owe you an apology," you said, the words tasting like something you ought to have uttered months ago, which made them harder to get out, not easier.

"You don't."

"Barnes, I've been horrible to you."

"You've been direct." He said it as though he meant it — not being generous or diplomatic, but simply accurate, by his measure. "I've had worse."

"That's not a particularly high bar."

"It's an honest one."

You lay there with that thought for a moment, letting the recalibration settle.

Every interaction — every terse exchange, every ignored greeting, and every pointed refusal to acknowledge his existence beyond operational necessity — replayed in fast-forward with the new context overlaid. Each one landed differently, and considerably worse. He had held doors open for you, complimented your sweep work, and made you soup. In return, you had met every gesture with the warmth of a closed fist, simply because his eyebrows didn't move the way you thought they should.

"I should also probably tell you something," Bucky said, still addressing the ceiling.

His voice had shifted once more, and had you not been lying close enough to hear the minute changes in his breathing, you might have missed the new tension within it. It wasn't discomfort or reluctance, but rather something closer to the careful steadying of a person about to step off a ledge they had been standing on for longer than planned.

"What?"

"I like you."

The words hit the dark ceiling and hung there, suspended, whilst your brain ran them through several rounds of processing, returning an error every time.

"I —" He cleared his throat. "I like working with you. Your tactical instincts are — the northwest junction call was good. It was better than my call. Furthermore, the way you handle aerial overwatch possesses a precision that — it makes my job easier, which isn't something I say about many people. I actually like that you argue with me, too. Most people don't; they either defer or avoid, whereas you just — " He made a vague gesture towards the ceiling with his right hand. "You come straight at it."

He was rambling.

Bucky — who usually communicated in sentence fragments, silences, and single-word affirmatives — was rambling. The words spilled out in a steady, almost helpless stream, as if he had uncorked something he didn't know how to reseal. The ceiling received the full force of it, given that he still hadn't looked at you and, at this point, probably couldn't.

"And the — the attitude. I know it was directed at me, and I understand that now, but even before I understood it, it didn't bother me. I thought it was simply how you were with everyone. I thought, they’re sharp, they’re focused, and they doesn't waste words, and that's —" He paused, swallowing hard. "I like that. I like all of it. And — you're not going to believe this — the glaring. Even the glaring. You commit to it. There's a — you're very —"

He stopped, breathing out as the sentence died a merciful death somewhere between his intention and his ability to articulate it.

"I don't care if you snap my ears off," he said quietly. "I never have."

On your side of the bed, behind the safety of the gap that now felt less like a demilitarised zone and more like the only barrier preventing you from doing something irreversible, you stared at the ceiling as the universe rearranged itself.

He liked you.

He liked you.

Bucky — whom you had spent six months hating with the dedicated focus of a doctoral thesis, whom you had categorised, filed, and sealed under enemy with absolute certainty — liked you.

He had liked you, quite possibly the entire time. He had appreciated your tactical calls, your aerial work, your stubbornness, and your glaring — which he had apparently found more charming than threatening.

This recontextualised every single moment you had ever shared into something so fundamentally different from what you had believed that your brain was essentially executing a factory reset in real time.

The Big Bang, as they said, originated from a single point of infinite density before expanding outwards in every direction at once. This felt remarkably similar, except the point of infinite density was Bucky saying I don't care if you snap my ears off in the dark, whilst the expansion represented every assumption you had ever made about him detonating simultaneously.

He had gone quiet. The ramble had passed itself, leaving him lying there, still aimed at the ceiling, presumably regretting every word he had spoken while steeling himself for whatever you were about to throw back at him.

The gap between you felt enormous — and suddenly, completely absurd.

0110 — six

You rolled over.

Not gradually, nor cautiously, and certainly not with the measured calculation of someone who had spent the last several hours maintaining the maximum possible distance from the man beside them.

You simply turned, crossing the gap as though it had never existed, before propping yourself up on your elbow on his side of the bed — close enough that your shadow fell across his chest.

Bucky went very still: the sort of still that had nothing to do with training and everything to do with the fact that his entire operating framework for this interaction had just been upended without warning. He had been braced for a multitude of possible responses — silence, anger, dismissal, or a scathing deconstruction of every word he had just uttered — yet certainly not this. He had not anticipated you being right there, leaning over him and looking down at him with an expression he had never before seen on your face, leaving him without a filed reference for it.

You were smiling.

It broke something in him — not loudly or dramatically, but with the quiet internal shift of a gear slipping into a position it hadn't known existed. He had seen you focused, furious, mid-combat, mid-argument, and mid-glare. He had catalogued every version of your face that you had ever shown him, yet none of them — not a single one — had included this. Open and bright, your eyes creased at the corners whilst your mouth curved in a way that made you look like an entirely different person, or perhaps the exact same person with a wall removed.

"Are you serious?" you asked.

He blinked. "About what?"

"Barnes. Are you serious? You like me?"

"I — yes. I just said —  I spent a significant amount of time just saying —"

"You like me." You said it again, not because you required confirmation, but rather because the words were new and you wished to feel them in your mouth a second time. A grin spread across your face—wide, uncontrolled, and entirely without your permission — and you couldn't have stopped it had national security depended on it.

Bucky stared up at you, his lips parting, closing, and parting again. The ramble that had poured out of him minutes ago had emptied his tank entirely; confronted with the direct, beaming, up-close reality of you smiling at him, he was left with nothing.

Every word he had ever learned in two languages, alongside a handful of operationally acquired phrases in four others, had vacated the premises.

"Yes," he managed, the word sounding as though it had been dragged out of him with a hook.

You laughed.

It wasn't at him, but rather at the situation, at yourself, and at six months of wasted hostility collapsing in real time. The sound landed on Bucky like something physical, making his chest shift beneath it. You watched his throat work through a swallow, observing his eyes as they tracked across your face with the bewildered focus of a man seeing a new colour for the first time and not yet trusting that it was real.

"You absolute idiot," you said, as your hand found his jaw.

His breathing changed. You felt it — the catch, the skip, and the barely perceptible hitch of someone whose body had just been informed of a development his brain hadn't authorised. Your fingers rested against the edge of his jaw, your thumb lying along his cheekbone. His skin felt warm beneath your hand — warmer than you had expected, which was a foolish thing to have expectations about, given that thirty seconds prior you had still been on your side of the demilitarised zone pretending to hate him.

"You —" he began.

"Shut up. I'm having a moment."

Your other hand landed on his shoulder — not in a grip or a shove, but in simple contact. With your palm resting on the curve of muscle through his shirt and your fingers settling against the junction of his neck, you felt him tense beneath you. He didn't pull away, but held himself in the rigid stillness of someone who didn't trust himself to move, having not yet determined what the correct movement ought to be.

You were slightly draped across him now, with one hand on his jaw, the other on his shoulder, and your weight shifted onto his side of the bed. You were close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and the way his pupils had widened in the low light. This was uncharted territory for both of you, obviously.

Yet watching it happen to him was something else entirely: observing the composure that had survived decades of ice, combat, and reprogramming falter over the simple, devastating fact that you were touching his face and smiling about it.

"Hi," you said, foolishly.

"Hi." His voice had dropped into a register you hadn't heard before—rough at the edges and quiet in the middle. His right hand came up slowly and carefully, as though reaching for something he expected to be snatched away, hovering near your elbow without quite landing. "You're — this is — I thought you hated me."

"I did hate you."

"And now?"

"Now I'm re-evaluating my methodology."

His hand landed. Gentle and uncertain, his fingers wrapped round your forearm with a pressure so light it was barely there, as if holding something he had been told was fragile without being informed where the cracks were.

You watched his eyes search yours — back and forth, quick and unguarded, stripped of the flat intensity you had been misreading for half a year. He wasn't glaring, nor was he staring; he was simply looking at you. For the first time, you could see what was actually present beneath the granite: a banked, cautious want, held at arm's length for so long he had forgotten he was doing it.

"For the record," you said, "the soup was incredible."

A sound escaped him — not quite a laugh, nor quite a breath, but something in the middle. It was an involuntary noise that seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. The corner of his mouth moved; it wasn't a full smile, nor even half of one, but a subtle shift — a fracture in the architecture — that transformed his entire face in a way that made your stomach drop pleasantly into your shoes.

"Noted," he said.

"And the business where you threw yourself in front of a bullet for me —"

"Standard protocol."

"It wasn't, actually."

"It felt standard."

"Barnes."

"Yeah."

You leaned down and kissed him.

It wasn't graceful, as the angle was wrong. You were still propped half on your elbow and half on his chest, your hand sliding from his jaw to the side of his neck as you closed the gap, your nose bumping his because geometry refused to cooperate with the urgency of the moment. Yet his mouth was warm, and when he took a full second to respond, you almost pulled back — nearly retreating to your side of the bed to die of mortification in peace — before his hand tightened on your arm. His other hand came up to the back of your head, and he kissed you back with a quiet, focused intensity suggesting he had been considering this for significantly longer than the duration of your conversation.

He kissed in the same manner he did everything else: thoroughly, unhurriedly, and deliberately, without a single wasted movement. His fingers slid into your hair whilst his thumb traced the line behind your ear, tilting his head to fix the angle problem you had created.

Distantly, in the remaining functional portion of your brain, you thought, Ah, so this is what it's like when he isn't on the other side of a room looking as though he wants to murder me.

It was better — categorically, unreservedly, and across every imaginable metric.

You broke apart just far enough to draw breath, his hand remaining in your hair while yours stayed on his neck. The gap between you had been reduced to practically nothing, leaving the wool blanket as a lost cause somewhere around both your waists. He was looking at you with an expression that, for the first time since you had known him, you could actually read.

"Just to be clear," he said, his voice slightly hoarse, "this means you don't hate me."

"This means I don't hate you."

"Right." His thumb moved against your scalp — slowly and absent-mindedly, as though he were doing it without realising. "Good. That's — yeah. Good."

You kissed him again — because he had said good like a man who had just been told the war was over, because his hand was tangled in your hair, and because his voice was wrecked.

You had six months of hostility to make up for, and you intended to be exceptionally thorough about it.

0111 — seven

Steve opened the safehouse door at 0600 with his shield strapped to his back, a cereal bar in hand, and the calm, satisfied expression of a man who had successfully rerouted an extraction under pressure — feeling, frankly, rather pleased with himself.

"Rise and shine, I've got us a window —"

He stopped dead.

You were on the bed, and Bucky was on the bed.

More accurately, you were on top of Bucky — your fingers tangled in his hair, his arm hooked securely round your waist, and your mouths occupied in a manner that had absolutely nothing to do with a mission debrief. The wool blanket had been kicked onto the floor at some point during the night, alongside, apparently, every professional boundary either of you had ever maintained.

Steve stared.

Breaking apart, Bucky's hand remained precisely where it was. You looked at Steve, Steve looked at you, and Bucky looked at Steve with the exact same unreadable expression he always wore — which, given the context, was doing a spectacular amount of heavy lifting.

The cereal bar lowered slowly to Steve's side.

"I —" Steve began.

"Morning," Bucky said.

"You —" Steve pointed at you, then pointed at Bucky, before pointing at the non-existent space between you. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. The strategic mind that had orchestrated the fall of HYDRA and the defence of three continents was, for the first time in recorded history, attempting to process something it had failed to anticipate.

"This is —" He took a step backwards. "I'm going to — I'll be in the — you have ten minutes."

The door clicked shut, followed by footsteps retreating down the corridor at a pace that could only be described as fleeing.

You looked at Bucky, and Bucky looked back at you. His hair was a disaster, whilst your shirt was untucked. Neither of you had slept for more than two hours, both of you looked it, and somewhere on the other side of the door, Steve was having a private reckoning with the direct consequences of his own tactical genius.

"He's splitting us up," you said. "You realise that, don't you? After this, he'll never put us on the same mission again."

Bucky's mouth executed that familiar movement — the subtle shift, the fracture in the architecture, the not-quite-smile that remade his entire face and caused your chest to do something structurally inadvisable.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Probably."

He didn't sound remotely bothered by the prospect.

From the corridor, muffled and vaguely traumatised, came Steve's voice: "Ten minutes, Buck!"

You kissed him again — partly because Steve had set a deadline, and mostly because spite had always been your love language.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @elarapheonix @hisokamywaifu @froggibus @axtira @rosemint-tea @sheriff-bodecker

$ join taglist

Bucky's already there, quietly facing away from the entry, watching the coffee drip into the pot. The light cuts across his back, metal reflecting the morning's glow. He looks soft in the light, though his features are sharp.

You don't say anything when you step in. The tile is cool beneath your feet, and the hem of your sweater brushes your thighs as you cross the room. The smell of the coffee hangs thick in the air. He doesn't look at you right away, but his shoulders ease a fraction when he notices your presence. He seems to know when it's you.

"Can't sleep?" you ask quietly, reaching past him for the coffee pot.

He steps aside, making room for you. His arm brushes yours, warm and solid. "Somethin' like that," he murmurs.

You pour your coffee slowly. The light catches the thin line of steam rising between you. You hold the pot toward him, signalling your willingness to refill his mug. He stretches his arm out, fingers curled around the handle.

Across the kitchen table, Sam lowers his spoon with a pointed clink against the bowl. "It's too early for this," he mutters. "It's Valentine's Day, and I'm having to do a stupid mission instead of wining and dining my lady."

"Sounds like you're doing plenty of whining," You smirk over the rim of your mug.

Sam points his spoon at you in accusation, but he's smiling. The kitchen feels warmer for a second, lighter, like this is just another morning and not the start of something dangerous. Not the kind of day that gets circled on calendars and wrapped in red hearts and pink lips.

Valentine's Day.

You hadn't meant to think about it all last night. It's easier not to; easier to pretend it's just another square on the calendar, just another mission day, just another early morning with mediocre coffee and tired eyes. Except it feels strange this year, almost... off balance. Because if you could choose where to be tonight, it wouldn't be at a restaurant or on a date.

It would be exactly where you usually are anyway, shoulder to shoulder with Bucky, sharing takeout containers and quiet conversations about everything and nothing. Your knees bumping his when you laugh at something he says. It's comfortable. Easy. Almost dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with the missions you go on.

He's your best friend. That's the name you gave it. It's safe that way. The one that lets you keep him around without risking the relationship. But lately the word feels small. You wonder, not for the first time, when "best friend" turned into the person you look for in every room before anyone else. The person whose footsteps you can pick out from the hallway. The one you save the last sip, the last bite, the last story of the night for.

Your gaze drifts to him without meaning to. It always does. You notice he's pretending not to listen to Sam anymore, but he definitely is. His mouth is doing that barely there thing, not quite a smile, but a small curl in the corners. The morning light sits in his hair, softening his appearance, making him look less like a weapon and more like a man who belongs in the kitchen at sunrise. Your chest tightens quickly. If anyone asked, you'd say today didn't matter. But man, it certainly feels like it should.

His eyes lift like he feels it. They land on you with quiet precision. Caught in the act, you forget to look away right off. For half a second, it's just the two of you in the kitchen, city glowing behind him, dust motes turning lazy circles in the light.

There's something unfair about how gentle he looks this early. No armor, no tactical gear, just a dark Henley stretched across his shoulders and sleep clinging to the edges of him.

"What?" he asks softly.

The word is low, private, and meant only for you, despite the fact that Sam is still loudly excavating cereal nearby.

You blink. "What, what?"

"You're starin'," he says, and there's a faint hint of humor in it, tucked into the corners of his mouth. Not a tease or a challenge, just a simple observation offered carefully.

Heat creeps up your neck. "Am not."

He lifts one brow, but he doesn't argue. Somehow, that makes it worse. Your pulse does that annoying stutter; it only ever does around him. You take another sip of your coffee to buy yourself a second. It would be so easy to tell the truth. I like looking at you. I always have.

Instead, you shrug. "You look grumpy. I was just checkin' if the coffee offended you again."

That earns you a real reaction, a soft laugh. "It's terrible," he says. "Think it melted the spoon."

"It's stainless steel, Buck," you reply.

"Still offended."

Sam groans. "I'm surrounded by chaos. Romance is dead."

You laugh, but your attention slides right back to Bucky Barnes, pulled there like it always is. His shoulder brushes yours when he leaves over to grab the coffee pot. It's a small, unconscious lean that he never corrects. Comfort settles in again, familiar and dangerous. It's the kind that makes you forget the lines you're supposed to stay behind.

Somewhere down the hall, the alert chime sounds. It's not too loud from where you are, but it's enough to make you sigh. You hear Sam push his chair back as he stands to bring his bowl to the sink. Bucky's expression shifts. The day is starting whether you like it or not.

Bucky sets his mug in the sink next to the bowl, already shifting into motion. Mission mode never looks dramatic on him. A straightening spine, a quieter face. All focus and no fun.

"You comin'?" he asks.

You nod and set your mug down. Your fingers bump the ceramic, still warm from his hand. The heat lingers for a second against your skin, and you hate how aware you are of it.

The hallway outside the kitchen is cooler, the polished floor reflecting the morning light in long pale stripes. Your footsteps fall into rhythm beside his without effort. They usually do. You've walked like this a thousand times, close enough that your sleeves brush, far enough that no one would think anything of it. Most of them think something of it, though.

Your shoulder knocks his lightly when he slows to let a tech hurry past. His hand comes up automatically, hovering near your back, not fully touching you. You feel it anyway, like he's protecting you.

"You bring your good boots?" you ask quietly.

He glances down at them like he has to check. "I always do."

"Last time you wore the old ones and complained for six hours."

"I did not complain."

"You narrated your suffering?"

"That's different."

You smile. There it is again, that almost smile of his in response, small but real. People sometimes say relationships are built on big moments. But yours is built on this. Shared steps and low voices. Knowing exactly how someone takes their coffee and hovering hands without needing credit for the catch.

Up ahead, the briefing room doors slide open. Screens glow blue against the dim interior. The rest of the team is already filtering in, half-suited, half-caffeinated. The room smells of coffee, still steaming in the single-use cups. A wide holographic display rotates slowly above the central table, throwing blue light across tired faces as everyone settles into place. You take your usual seat without thinking, and like always, Bucky ends up in the chair beside you. Your legs meet briefly under the table, and you smile at him before turning your attention to the front of the room. 

A satellite image sharpens overhead. Industrial buildings, rail lines, and a river cut through the edge of the property line.

"Alright, lovebirds and lonely hearts," Sam says, dropping into his chair and spinning it once before stopping with his boots hooked on the table edge. "Let's ruin the most romantic day of the year."

"I had a whole speech about work-life balance prepared, but then illegal weapons trafficking ruined the mood," Tony says.

A few groans answer him. 

"We intercepted encrypted chatter late last night. A breakaway weapons cell set up temporary operations here, inside an abandoned freight distribution hub just outside the city. They're moving product, and we think it's for something bigger."

"Define product," you say.

"Portable guided munitions," Tony answers. "Shoulder launcher, smart tracking, not very romantic. The kind of stuff that turns crowded places into headlines."

Everyone sighs. Thermal scans layer over the model. Moving heat signatures. Parked trucks. Guard rotations plotted in neat predictive loops.

"Buyer?" Steve asks.

"Still in the wind," Tony replies. "Which means if this shipment rolls, we get to play find the missile later. I hate sequels."

"Got it. So we hit it before it moves." Sam says.

"Gold star," Tony points a finger at him. "Transfer closes before noon. After that, distribution branches and our neat little problem become a messy big one."

Routes appear in colored lines. Entry vectors, blind spots, and jammer zones pulse red. Security notes scroll beside the map: patrol density, signal interference, and interior barricades built from old shipping containers.

"Outer ring is armed and alert," Tony continues. "Inner flor is compartmentalized. They're expecting competition, just not you specifically, which I find insulting."

"Tragic," Bucky deadpans.

"My reservation's at seven," Sam mutters. "Non-refundable."

Tony doesn't look up. "You've generously donated to the restaurant industry."

Sam gestures between you and Bucky. "Meanwhile, these two have zero plans ever and look the most offended."

You keep your eyes on the map. It's safer there. Assignment tags blink across the layout. Advance element, east service corridor. Your name. Bucky Barnes.

Sam makes a soft drumroll on the table. "Predictable and adorable."

Tony points at Sam, "Ariel sweep. No flirting with the hostiles."

"No promises."

The plan builds in layers, contingencies stacking clean and fast. Timing is everything in missions like this. Speed matters more. Every minute of delay increases the odds that those launchers leave the building.

"Go suit up. If we're fast enough, nobody should miss their plans tonight."

Chairs slide back, and you hear the sound of boots down the hall as the mission gravity settles in. You stand at the same time Bucky does. Of course you do. Your sleeves brush as you turn toward the exit. You're not exactly sure when you started noticing every little touch, or look, or breath he takes.

The corridor outside the briefing room is quieter than the main floors, with the lights set low for the early hour. Your footsteps echo in sync, a steady rhythm that matches the pulse in your throat. Pre-mission silence feels stretched tight, every sense tuned sharper. People don't joke as much out here.

Your hand flexes at your side, already thinking through your kit, blade placement, reload time, angles of entry. But there's something else layered beneath today's readiness, something more distracting. Maybe it's the date. Maybe it's him. It's probably the two combined.

"You good?" he asks.

He doesn't look at you when he says it. Eyes forward, scanning corners like you're already midmission.

"Yeah..." you answer. "You?"

"Always."

It's automatic, the reply. You know better. He knows you know better.

A tech team rolls a cart across the intersecting hall, and Bucky reaches up to grab your elbow to pull you back. You just missed the cart. You could live inside these touches. You already do.

"Whoa," you gasp. "Thanks, Buck."

His mouth curves faintly, there and gone.

The armory door slides open with a hydraulic hiss. Inside, the air smells like oil, cold steel, and polymer. Overhead strip lights reflect off neatly organized racks, labeled drawers, and charging stations blink green. You head over to your station. 

Gear up is its own language. No wasted motions. You lay everything out first, same order every time. Twin knives balanced with familiarity in your palms. Widow bite gauntlets, compact and dark, you snap them open and check the charge indicators. Micro line launcher, shock disks, compact smoke pellets. Each piece of gear gets a touch, a check, and a place on your frame.

Across from you, Bucky works in heavier shapes and darker lines. Field pistols broken down and reassembled with fluid precision. Magazine springs tested, slides racked. He lines up his knives last, more of them than anyone else carries, edges catching the light like thin mirrors. You watch his hands for half a second too long, and he notices.

He spins one blade once, testing the weight, then loops up at you without lifting his head. "You're doin' it again."

"Doin' what?"

"Starin' at me."

"I'm observing craftsmanship, James."

"It's a knife."

"It's your knife."

His eyebrows raise. You feel the warmth creep up your neck. You step closer before you even think about it.

"Hold still," you say.

He does. The leather's twisted near the buckle. You straighten it, fingers working close to his collarbone. You can feel his warmth through the fabric, steady and solid. Your knuckles brush the edge of a scar. His breathing shifts just slightly.

"All set," you murmur.

Your turn comes faster than expected. His flesh hand checks the seal on your gauntlet strap, firm and careful. He always double-checks your restraints and closures.

"Good," he says quietly.

For a second, you're standing close enough that if either of you leaned in, even a little, the line you've protected for so long would disappear.

Boots thud past the armory entrance, voices come and go, and suddenly reality sets in again. Weapons loaded, armor ready, hearts doing things they shouldn't be doing. You push those feelings aside and steady yourself before heading toward the Quinjet.

The ramp hums under your boots as you board. Inside, the cabin lights glow low amber, casting long shadows across harness straps and cargo netting. The familiar shape of the jet feels steadier than the morning has.

Sam drops into the seat across from you and starts strapping in, still talking like the silence might actually kill him. "I just want it noted," he starts, "that if anybody asks, I was ready to be romantic today.

From the cockpit doorway, Nat glances back while running a systems check on her wrist display. "You say that every year."

"I mean it every year."

"It's never true, though."

He presses a hand to his chest. "That hurts."

She doesn't even look up. "You'll live."

Bucky takes the seat beside you, knees almost touching yours in the narrow spacing. He locks his harness with one clean pull, then checks yours without comment. Tug, glance, satisfied nod. Every flight, without fail. Across the aisle, Steve adjusts his gloves with a quiet focus. His posture is straight, even at rest. He looks up and scans the cabin, doing his own head count. He always does.

"Wheels up in thirty seconds. Primary plan still holds." Steve says calmly.

A few nods. Tension is thick, though, it always is before a mission. You lean forward to recheck your gauntlet charge. Green reflections dance across your knuckles. Bucky watches the motion, cataloging it without meaning to. He wonders, not for the first time, how someone built for sharp edges learned to move so carefully. He's supposed to be reviewing entry angles. Instead, he's memorizing the way your mouth presses into a thin line when you concentrate.

The engines deepen in pitch. The cabin vibrates through the soles of his boots. Mission gravity settles in his chest, a familiar weight that he's grown accustomed to. Danger is simple when you're a deadly assassin. Feelings for your best friend aren't. He's risked everything in wars, in prisons, in the blank spaces where his past was taken from him. Yet saying one honest sentence to you feels more terrifying than any of that.

You glance over, catching him looking this time. You lift your eyebrows in a silent question. "You're quiet," you say over the engine.

"Thinkin'," he answers.

"Uh oh."

"Yeah," he says softly. "Uh oh."

The jet lifts. Natasha's voice comes over the cabin channel. "Check comms. Jammers might be active."

Sam groans. "Nothing says Valentine's Day like signal interference and ass-kicking."

Bucky flexes his metal fingers once, then rests his hands on his knees. He's completely gone for you and running out of reasons to pretend otherwise.

The jet settles into descent with a controlled shudder, engines throttling down to a low, predatory hum. The cabin lights shift to red. Outside the small side window, the warehouse district spreads in gray blocks and skeletal remains of buildings that once held life. Morning haze clings to the river. Mission air feels thick and sharp.

Bucky rolls his shoulders once and lets the soldier part of him take the wheel, but it doesn't push everything else out. It never really does when you're within arm's reach. Harnesses click open in staggered snaps. Across the cabin, Steve stands first.

"Final check. Comms are good, keep them clear. We stay quiet unless we need to."

"Copy," comes Nat over the internal channel, already mission-ready near the ramp.

Sam taps his earpiece. "If I whisper any quieter, I'm technically thinking."

"You should try that more often." You say.

Bucky doesn't smile, but he feels the shape of one trying to happen. His attention keeps splitting, half on approach vectors, half on you doing your premission ritual. Adjusting your gloves for the third time, a tell you don't know you have: anxious, nervous, whatever you want to call it.

You stand from your seat and close your eyes. You cross your left arm over your chest, your right hand grabbing that elbow to stretch. You take a deep breath. Then you do the same motion with the opposite arms. You drop your arms and drop your head back, taking another deep breath. You shake your hands out by your sides. Bucky watches you every time. Infactuated? Captivating?

He wants to tell you to be careful. He wants to tell you to stay behind him. He wants to say I'll protect you. Instead, he checks your shoulder seam for a snag that isn't there and pulls his hand back as if nothing happened.

"Another day, another mission." You whisper, smiling at Bucky.

"We'll do fine." He nods, seriously. Stoic soldier fronting.

"That's why I love ya, Buck." You laugh quietly. 

The ramp lowers just enough to slip bodies through. Cold air rushes in, damp and metallic, carrying the smell of wet concrete and old fuel. The jet sets down behind a derelict storage structure two blocks from the target, shielded from line of sight. Boots hit the ground softly with silent nods to the rest of the group. Formations take place instantly.

Tony's voice threads through the comms, filtered and dry. "Nice and warm here in the Tower, folks. Satellite drift in ninety seconds. After that, you're under local for another ninety. That cycle repeats. Try not to do anything cinematic."

"No promises," Sam whispers.

You and Bucky peel off together toward the eastern approach, cutting between stacked cargo containers beaded with condensation. Your movement matches his without signals, without discussion. Years of shared missions turned into instinct. He knows your pace, your angles, and how much distance you like between you and a partner when you're hunting quietly. He knows the sounds you make when you're trying not to be scared.

You're making it now, that almost silent breath through your nose. It's controlled. But he knows it, hears it. He wants to reach for your hand again. The urge is sudden and overwhelming. But it's not smart.

"In position," Steve says into comms. "Status report."

Bucky keys his mic with a minimal press. "East corridor. No visual compromise."

"Copy," Steve says. "We're staged west. Sam, status."

"Nothing above so far."

You crouch at the service door access panel, pulling a slim tool from your belt. Your shoulder brushes Bucky's thigh as you work. He watches your hands instead of the perimeter for half a bear too long, but he trusts his training to cover the gap. He knows the curve of your focused face better than he knows his weapons at this point.

The lock clicks open under your tool with a tiny metallic sigh. You glance up at him, eyes bright.

"Ready?" you mouth.

He nods once. Steady on the outside, but falling straight through the inside.

The door opens, and you slip in first. Smooth and low, Bucky follows close enough to cover your blind side without crowding your movement. Inside, the air changes. Stale dust, cold iron, and old oil soaked into concrete. Light filters through high cracked windows in pale vertical strips, turning floating particles into drifting static. Somewhere deeper in the structure, machinery rattles from the wind. The door eases shut behind Bucky with barely a sound.

Bucky's senses narrow and sharpen. Angles, shadows, and distance to cover fill his mind. The world becomes lines and timing. And you. Always you at the center of his awareness like a fixed star.

"East corridor entry complete," you say quietly over comms, voice steady and low.

"Copy," Steve answers. "West team moving to outer ring."

"Roofline set," Sam adds. "Two patrols above you, catwalk level."

You hold up two fingers, then point left. Your wrist gadget shows a heat signature under the next doorway. Bucky nods once. He shifts and draws a knife. 

The guard steps halfway through the doorway and never gets the chance to finish his next step. Your widow line snaps tight around his ankles and pulls him off balance while Bucky closes the distance. One hand over his mouth, one precise strike.

You look at Bucky, quickly checking on him. He gives you a nod before he turns to continue through the door. Every time you move like this, efficient and alive, something in his chest aches with pride he has no right to claim. You're not his to protect, but he does it anyway.

You advance deeper. The corridor opens onto a loading floor the size of a football field, stacked with crates, hung with chains, and suspended walkways. Voices carry in broken reflections off metal walls. Engines idle near the far bays. Transfer is active, and Tony was right on the mark.

"Visual on cargo," you report calmly. "Multiple crates, launcher-sized."

"Confirmed," Tony says. "Tags match."

A laugh drifts across the floor from a cluster of armed buyers near a truck. They think they're safe. It's almost comical. They're casual and relaxed. Just hoping for the next big payday.

Bucky watches you scan sightlines, mark routes, and count bodies. You watch him when you can, too. How his head drops slightly when he's zoning in on a target. How he flips his knife before sinking into a hostile. How he always seems to be looking at you when you want to look at him.

He loves you. You love him.

The thought lands fully formed this time in Bucky's head, in his chest, in his heart.

It should feel like a crisis. Instead, it feels like the missing piece that he hadn't realized he was missing.

"East side, hold," Steve says over comms. "West is almost in position."

"Copy," Bucky answers.

You both settle behind a stack of wrapped pallets. Close enough that your arms are pressed along his from shoulder to wrist. His breathing is steady, and you count it without meaning to. His metal fingers flex once against the knife handle.

"West side set," says Steve in your ear. "Eyes on three exterior doors and the north catwalk."

"Roofline ready," adds Sam. "I've got overwatch on two trucks and a bored guy picking his teeth."

"Focus," Nat sighs.

"I am focused. On his dental hygiene."

You shift beside Bucky, leaning just enough to sight past the pallet edge. He adjusts with you automatically, your shoulders aligned, fields of fire interlocked. It feels like dancing, if dancing involved knives and suppressed rounds.

"Buck, you're cleared to move to inner cover."

You move together from pallets to crates to forklifts. Each crossing is timed between patrol turns and engine noise. Your wrist gadget flicks once, twice, disabling a camera node with a soft spark that vanishes beneath the echoing machinery.

Bucky tracks threats, but he also tracks you. The way you signal without looking. The way you trust him to be exactly where you expect. And you do. Because he's Bucky, the same guy who has never let you down even one single time. Who you love. Trust is a heavier weight than armor.

A buyer group shifts near the central truck, weapons sling careless. One steps away to smoke. Nat's voice threads in, low and certain. "Isolated target, south stack. I've got him."

Three seconds later, the man is quietly horizontal and out of the story.

"Outer ring is thinning," she reports.

"Timing's good. Tony says over comms. "Thermals show crate loading starting now. You're inside their window."

You pause behind a vertical beam, back almost against his chest as you peek at the angle. He can feel you breathe through layers of gear. He could say it right now, he thinks wildly. After this, he promises himself. After this push, we're home. No more waiting for the perfect moment.

Across the floor, Steve and Nat shift positions among stacked cargo, drawing attention with their subtle, deliberate movement. Guards are redirected over towards them. Lines of sight change. Everyone's watching something and tracking someone, adjusting for obvious threats.

"Let's move in, fast."

The warehouse erupts into motion, controlled and surgical. Steve and Nat make noise, a rolling wave of impact and command presence that pulls attention hard. Shouted orders are heard over the hum of machinery as hostiles make their way over. Eyes turn away from your sector exactly as planned.

"Go," Bucky says, already moving.

You launch with him. There's no hesitation between you, no verbal count. You both break cover on the same breath, splitting angles like mirrored instinct. Your widow line snaps out and yanks a rifle sideways just as its owner tries to shoulder it. Bucky's already there, driving forward, disarming with a brutal twist. He drops the man flat. You pivot off Bucky's momentum, plant a boot on a crate edge, and vault. Midair, you loosen a shock disk that pops up against a second guard's vest in a crackle of blue. He folds with a strangled yelp. Bucky doesn't even need to look to confirm. He knows you hit your shots.

He covers your landing with two suppressed shots, tight grouping, and clean. Your knife flashes past his shoulder a split second later and buries into the strap of a third hostile's weapon, pinning it useless against a post. It's just you and him, years of watching each other move, learning rhythms, building a shared combat language no one ever formally taught.

"Cutting center," Bucky reports.

"Seen," Steve answers. "Keep pushing."

A forklift roars to life near the truck bay as a driver panics. You're already moving toward it. Bucky beats you there by half a stride and shoots the hydraulics. The machine slumps sideways with a groan, blocking the exit.

You grin at him, quick and bright. "Show off."

He almost says only for you. Instead, he tosses your thrown knife back to you without looking. You catch it by the handle. More proof of how locked in you are with each other. Gunfire cracks from the catwalks, misdirected toward Steve's pressure line. Sam's voice cuts in.

"Topside scrambling. I'm herding."

"Copy," says Nat. "Left ladder clear."

Bucky steps into your space to redirect your line of fire by half an inch, his metal arm bracing briefly against your ribs so you don't overexpose yourself beyond cover. The contact is firm, protective, and gone way too fast. His heart is pounding harder from that than from the shooting.

He's dimly aware that if anyone watched you two long enough, they'd see it. Not just the efficiency, but the care threaded through it. The constant adjustments to keep each other safe. You've never fought like this with anyone else.

The last guard in your immediate lane drops. For half a second, it feels like the center is yours. Noise shifts and targets are thinning out.

Nobody calls out the guard on the far mezzanine. Bucky starts to turn toward you to say your name. The rifle cracks. The sound is wrong. Not the scattered echo of crossfire, not the muffled thump of suppressed shots. This one is sharp and clean and close enough that Bucky feels it in his teeth.

He's already turning toward you when it happens. Your body jerks like someone yanked a wire through you. The motion is small, almost confused, and then momentum disappears. The knife slips from your fingers and clatters across the concrete in a lonely metallic spin. For half a heartbeat, his brain refuses to translate what he's seeing. He sees the red bloom on your suit, and the color leaves your face.

"Contact, mezzanine!" Sam barks over comms a fraction too late. "High right!" 

Bucky is moving before the words finish. He fires twice at the man who may have just killed you. Pure instinct, driving the shooter back behind the railing. You hit the ground hard. Everything drops out of focus. Sound narrows to a high rushing ring. The warehouse becomes distant shapes and irrelevant motion. 

Training says to secure the threat, maintain formation, and keep the objective in sight. Bucky drops to his knees beside you instead. Your eyes are open but unfocused, breathing unevenly. Blood is spreading fast through the seam of your suit at your side, darker than the shadows.

"No," he hears himself say, rough and immediate. "No, no, no."

"What's going on?" Steve says through comms.

"We're hit, it looks bad," Bucky responds, no longer mission-focused.

His gloves are already slick as he clamps pressure over the wound, hands shaking despite iron strength.

"Stay with me," he says to you, voice breaking loose from control. "Look at me."

You try to focus on him. The pain comes in waves but never stops. You summon all the strength you have left to reach for his face, trying to cup his cheek. He reaches out to help you bring his hand to his cheek. You move your thumb once before feeling like you're fading away. 

This is the moment he's rehearsed in nightmares, always wordless, always too late. He doesn't want this to be the end. 

"Med evac is almost here," Nat says. "I'm moving to them."

"Shooter confirmed dead. We got 'em all." Sam comms.

Bucky leans closer, forehead almost touching yours, the world reduced to your barely there breath and the heat leaving your skin under his hands.

"I was gonna tell you," he blurts, the words tearing out unfiltered. "I was gonna tell you after this, I swear."

He presses harder on the wound, but the blood doesn't stop coming. You try to speak, but the words can't come out. You form what you think are words for Bucky, but they come out as pained moans.

"You can't," he says, voice fraying. This is the man under the soldier stripped bare.

Steve walks up to Bucky, who's still learning over your body.

"C'mon, Buck, we gotta get her out of her."

Bucky looks up at Steve, two lone tears stream down either side of his face. Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a light squeeze.

Bucky whispers in your ear, hoping you can hear him, "I love you. Please stay."

You're on the med jet, strapped to a stabilization board, with med foam packed right against the wound. Your face has gone too pale under the smear of blood and antiseptic. It launches almost the moment your stretcher locks into place. Priority transport. Gone into the morning sky before the rest of the team even finishes loading out.

Bucky watches it disappear through the narrowing edge of the ramp, jaw locked so tightly it aches. He doesn't realize he's taken a step after it until Steve puts a steady hand on his shoulder.

"They'll get her there faster this way." He reminds Bucky quietly.

Bucky nods once. It's not really an agreement, but he knows he can't do anything about it.

There's no banter on their flight home. No post-mission ritual. Just engine thunder and the low vibration through the deck plates. The cabin lights stay dim. 

Bucky sits away from everyone else, his eyes stuck on the floor between his boots. Elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging empty between them.

The other three sit near enough to talk quietly. Nat cleans blood off her gloves with slow strokes. Sam takes worried glances at Bucky every now and then, checking on him silently. His wings are folded neatly, and he removes some gear for an excuse to fidget with something.

Bucky keeps replaying the moment in his head. He can still hear the sound of the gun going off. He can hear the gasp you let out when the bullet entered your skin. He can see the color drain from your face and the glossy look of your eyes before they finally shut. He'll never forgive himself if that's the last time he sees you. The last time he feels your warm skin and listens to you tease him for being a show off. His brain is trying to solve it differently, like there's still time to intercept the bullet.

After a while, Sam clears his throat. "She's stubborn," he says. "That counts for something."

"It counts for a lot."

Bucky swallows hard. He hasn't been able to trust his voice. Steve unstraps and crosses the distance, movements balanced against the jet. He doesn't sit down, just braces a hand on the seat frame beside Bucky.

"You did everything right," Steve says.

Bucky lets out a shaky breath that almost turns into a broken laugh. "I didn't, she still got hit."

"That doesn't mean you failed."

"It does to me."

Steve studies him for a moment, not pushing him to say more. "You broke the shooter's line of sight in under a second. You stopped that second round. You kept her alive."

What happened, Bucky thinks, is that he almost lost her. And he should have been the one to take the bullet. His hands curl into fists. Metal fingers whisper against each other.

"I finally said it," he says quietly, like a confession.

Steve knows exactly what he means. "Yeah," he answers. "I heard you."

Heat crawls up the back of Bucky's neck despite the cold cabin air. "Wasn't how I planned it."

"Most real things aren't," Steve says. "But you can tell her again later. She's gonna get through this."

The engine pitch shifts as they change altitude. The sound fills the pause.

"It's Valentine's Day afterall," Steve adds after a moment. "Kind of a perfect day built for saying what matters."

Bucky looks up at him then, eyes red-edged and exhausted. "What if she dies?"

Steve's grip tightens briefly on the frame. "We cross that bridge if we have to. Until then, you make sure you tell her again when she wakes up."

The jet keeps cutting forward through the morning, carrying all of them home without the one person Bucky keeps checking for. No one speaks after that.

The tower feels too normal when they land. Glass catching sunlight now that it's early afternoon. The kind of day that shouldn't exist when someone's life is hanging in the balance a few floors below. 

They move through intake and security on autopilot, putting their gear back where it belongs. Logging weapons and writing signatures. No one lingers or jokes. The absence of your footsteps is felt by everyone on the team.

Debrief happens quickly. The conference room screens glow with mission playback, drone angles, heat maps, and timestamps. Freeze frames of impact points and takedowns. Tony stands at the head of the table, scrolling through data with tight, economical gestures.

"Shipment was secured," he says. "Inventory intact enough that we have full trace. Buyers' network is sweating, so that's a win."

No one reacts. Tony reads the room quickly. He swipes to a Redwing camera playback. The moment of the shot pauses mid-frame, but he doesn't play it.

"Crossfire variables stacked wrong," Tony says. "Early rotation and elevation shadow. That's on their dice, not your skill."

Bucky doesn't answer. He hasn't even sat down.

Steve chimes in, "Status?"

Tony exhales sharply, and there it is, the himan crack in the armor. "Out of surgery. Bullet passed straight through. Missed the worst of the organs by a margin."

Bucky's fingers flex at his sides. "When can we see her?"

"Short version, not yet," Tony explains. "Long version, they'll page you when she is able to have visitors."

Tony looks straight at Bucky now. "She made it to the table alive because of you, Barnes."

Bucky gives a solid nod and turns to leave the room. He needs a hot shower, fresh clothes, and maybe a good cry if he can manage it.

---

The medical floor is too white, too bright, too controlled. Footsteps soften automatically on the polymer flooring. People speak in low tones, as if the volume itself were part of the treatment. Bucky waits through two checkpoints and one firm-handed nurse who makes him sit for exactly four minutes that feel like forty. He doesn't argue with her, although he wishes he could.

Finally, a door slides open down the corridor.

"Okay, Mr. Barnes. She's all yours."

He nods. The room is dimmer than the hallway. Monitors glow in gentle blues and greens. Lines run across one screen, and other machines breathe softly beside the bed. And there you are. Too still and too pale. Bandaging wrapped clean at your side, shoulder exposed above hospital fabric, skin marked with adhesive and sensor leads. Your hair looks wrong against the pillow, like it hasn't been brushed.

For a second, he can't even step forward. Battlefields never did this to him. Hydra never did this to him. You, quiet and hurt in here, almost drops him to his knees.

He moves to the bedside slowly. His metal hand hovers, then settles carefully around your fingers, mindful of the wires. You're warmer now, thank god.

"I'm here now," he whispers.

He studies your face as if he's relearning its map. The crease near your brow and the tiny scar near your chin. Of course, he knew they were there, but he had taken them for granted before.

"You picked one hell of a day to scare me," he murmurs. "I had a whole speech planned. You kinda ruined my timin'."

His thumb strokes once across your knuckles. "I meant it. I don't know if you heard me, but I meant it."

Time stretches in the recovery room until it no longer feels measurable. The monitors keep their steady rhythm. Your chest rises and falls quietly. Each inhale pulls his attention like a thread. Bucky sits forward in the chair, forearms braced on the mattress edge, still holding your hand. He doesn't even know what time it is, only that Sam has left to go have his "wine and dine" dinner date.

He keeps talking because silence feels like surrender.

"Remember that terrible takeout place you like so much?" he quietly smiles to himself. "I would do anything to eat their greasy food with you right now."

His thumb traces a slow line along your fingers.

"I was gonna grab that for us tonight. That was the big plan. Real smooth, right? Greasy food and probably a movie you'd pretend not to cry to." His voice tightens on the last word.

"Steve says timing's never right for the important stuff. Guess he's got a point. Still hate that he's right though."

Footsteps pass in the hallways. A cart rolls by. Life keeps moving outside this room, and it feels offensive. He bows his head a little, bringing his arm up as a makeshift pillow.

"I've jumped out of planes and fallen from trains," he sighs. "None of it comes as close as to how I feel right now."

Time moves by slowly and quickly all at once. It's eight o'clock now. Bucky only knows because a nurse came in to check on you. She wrote down the time on the whiteboard by the door. He's hungry, he's thirsty, and he'd rather die of starvation and dehydration than leave your side. He looks out the window in the room, wishing the two of you could be out in the city, laughing and hanging out. He wishes he could tell you how he feels and hear what you have to say.

There's a faint shift in your hand. So small that someone might miss it. He jerks upright, studying your face carefully. Another small movement. Bucky is frozen in place. Another tiny movement, your fingers trying to curl but not quite getting there yet. Your brows tighten like you're fighting up through deep water.

"Easy there," he whispers. "You're okay."

Your lashes flutter, stop, and flutter again. The monitor ticks a little faster.

"That's it," he encourages. "Come back to me."

Your eyes open a sliver, unfocused, light sensitive. Confusion takes over. Then discomfort. A low groan escapes your throat as you adjust. A throbbing ache at your side. You try to assemble the room piece by piece.

Bucky's the first thing that resolves clearly in your line of sight. Relief hits his face so openly it would scare him if he were capable of self-consciousness right now.

He lets out a breath, "Hey."

Your voice doesn't come out yet, but your lips part like you're trying. Your gaze drops, finds your bandaging, the wires, then climbs back to him with a question and a memory tangled together.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "You got hit. Thought you died."

Your fingers tighten weakly around his. Tears burn his eyes instantly, and he laughs under his breath. He tries not to let them fall, but he can't help it. A shaky breath comes out as he shakes his head.

"Told you not to get shot," he whispers. "You never listen."

Your throat works to get the words out. Your voice is barely there, scraped thin.

"...Gotta keep.. you on your toes."

He huffs a broken, grateful breath. Your gaze locked on his, hazy but sharpening by the second. The room comes to you in layers: sounds first, then light, then pain. But always him.

"I... love you, too." You manage to get out.

Emotion crowds his throat again, but this time he lets it stay.

"I wasn't supposed to say it like that," he continues, voice low and unguarded. "I had this whole night planned.

He glances down at your joined hands, then back up, blue eyes clear and terrified and certain all at once. "I meant it, though, every word."

You smile at him. Bits and pieces of the morning play in your head. You've never seen a man break down quite like Bucky had earlier. And honestly, you had been grateful you were able to hold his face one last time before the darkness took over.

"Thought I was a goner," You mumbled.

He nods, understanding exactly how you feel.

"You know, I've been in love with you for a while now," he says, simple and direct. "Didn't know if we should put a label on it. Was too nervous to ruin the relationship with my favorite person."

His thumb brushes your knuckles, but he keeps his eyes on you. 

"Me too, Buck."

"I kept telling myself I had time," he goes on. "More missions, more mornings in the kitchen. More chances to say it at the right time, exactly how I wanted. But I wasn't sure I was allowed to want more."

Your eyes shine now, fully awake, completely present.

"The days leading up to Valentine's Day felt... complicated?" he admits. "Not because I didn't have someone, but because the someone I wanted was already with me, and I didn't know if we could be anything more."

Your fingers squeeze his with surprising strength. 

He leans in a little, voice softer but steadier than it's been in hours. "I'm telling you right here, right now, I love you. As more than a mission partner, as more than a friend. I love everything about you."

Your eyes fill before he even finishes the last word. Not from pain, not from the meds, but from the way he's looking at you like the truth finally got tired of waiting and chose to come out. You study his face like you're confirming something you've known for a long time but never dared to name. The worry lines, the softness he only shows when he forgets to hide, and the way his grip never loosened.

"I thought..." you murmur. "I guess I thought it would be easier for me to pretend not to notice."

His brows pull together. "Notice what?"

"How it feels when you walk into the room."

He just looks at you, waiting for you to continue.

"I didn't say anything," you go on. "Because I didn't want to lose you. But honestly, best friends isn't enough for me."

Silence folds around you, warm and full instead of empty. His thumb is still moving over your hand, as if he can't stop touching you, as if touch is proof you're still really here.

"You sure this isn't the meds talkin'?"

You manage a faint, crooked smile. "If it were the meds, I'd have told you months ago."

And that does it. The last of his restraint gives way. He rises from the chair and leans in slow enough for you to stop him if you want. Close enough that you can feel his breath, warm and unsteady.

"My lips are so dry from this place," you whisper through a giggle.

"I don't care," he smiles.

The kiss is gentle, careful of tubes and soreness, and the fact that you're still healing. Soft, lingering, reverent. Not scared and rushed like a battlefield claim, not desperate to get the words out. This is more like a sweet beginning.

His warm hand cradles your jaw lightly. He kisses you as if he's been holding it back for years, and he plans to keep doing it for the rest of his life. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing the same air.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he whispers.

"Took you long enough, James."

"You're worth the wait, doll."

———

Part Two

Your fingers twist in the hem of your sleeve as you sit on the couch, angled just slightly toward him. Bucky’s sprawled beside you, long legs stretched out, one arm hooked over the back of the couch like he owns the space without even trying. There’s a quiet movie playing on the TV, something neither of you are really paying attention to. His attention keeps drifting back to you anyway—little glances, soft and curious.

You notice every single one of them.

You always do.

Your knee bumps his accidentally and your heart jumps like you’ve done something wrong. He doesn’t pull away, though. If anything, his leg shifts just a little closer, pressing more firmly against yours.

God.

You swallow.

“Buck?” you try, and immediately want to hide.

His head turns toward you instantly. “Yeah, doll?” His voice is soft, warm in that way that always makes your chest feel too tight.

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because suddenly the words feel embarrassing. Too needy. Too much. What if he doesn’t want to? What if he’s comfortable like this and you mess it up? What if—

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Sorry.”

You turn your attention back to the TV like you didn’t just implode right next to him.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, quieter, closer—“Hey.”

His hand finds your wrist. Not grabbing, not forcing. Just there. Thumb brushing gently over your pulse like he’s checking in.

“You sure?” he asks.

You nod too fast. “Mhm.”

Another pause.

His thumb keeps moving.

“Because,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing his words with care, “you’ve been fidgeting for the last ten minutes. And you keep lookin’ at me like you’ve got somethin’ to say.”

Your face burns.

“I—no, I haven’t.”

Bucky huffs out a quiet, amused breath; eyes twinkling in fondness.

“Doll.”

And that’s it. That one word, all warm and coaxing, and you crumble.

“I just—” you start, and your voice immediately gets smaller. “I was just wondering if, um—if you maybe wanted to—like, if you’re not busy or anything—”

His brows pull together, not in frustration, just confusion. “Not busy,” he repeats gently.

“Right, yeah, I know, I just mean—if you didn’t want to, that’s totally fine, I just—”

“Hey.” His hand slides up from your wrist to your arm, grounding. “Slow down. What’re you askin’ me, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

You might actually pass away.

You take a breath, staring determinedly at a spot on the couch instead of at him.

“Can we… cuddle?” you mumble, so quiet it barely counts as sound. “Just for a little bit. If that’s okay.”

Silence.

Oh God.

You knew it. You knew you shouldn’t have asked. You start to pull back, already preparing to laugh it off, to say you didn’t mean it, to pretend—

“Oh.”

It’s soft. Almost breathless.

You risk a glance up.

Bucky looks like you just handed him something precious.

His expression has completely melted. There’s no other word for it. The sharp lines of his face have gone soft, eyes wide and warm and a little bit awed, like he can’t believe you just asked him that.

“Yeah,” he says immediately. Then, a little stronger, like he needs to make sure you hear him properly, “Yeah, of course we can.”

Your shoulders loosen just a fraction. “Really?”

“Really?” he echoes, almost incredulous. “Doll, you never gotta ask like it’s a big favor.”

“I just didn’t wanna bother you,” you admit, voice small again.

That does something to him.

You see it, the way his jaw tightens just slightly.

“You could never bother me,” he says, quiet but firm.

Before you can overthink it again, he’s already moving.

His arm drops from the back of the couch, sliding around your shoulders, guiding you gently into him. Like he’s giving you every chance to change your mind, even though you never would.

You go easily, curling into his side.

And the second you settle against him, it’s like something in him gives.

He exhales, long and slow, like he’s been holding that breath all day. His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer until you’re practically draped over him. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you into his chest.

“There we go,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything.

You can hear his heartbeat. Feel it under your cheek—steady, strong.

Safe.

Your hand curls against his shirt, bunching the fabric lightly as you relax into him. The earlier nerves start to fade, replaced by something warm and soft that spreads through your chest.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment, voice low.

“Mhm,” you hum. “Sorry I made it weird.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through you.

“You didn’t make it weird,” he says. “You made my day.”

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “I did?”

“Yeah.” His thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles against your arm. “You askin’ for this? Means you want me close.” A small pause. “I like that.”

Your face heats again, but it’s softer this time. Less panic, more… something shy and happy.

“I always want you close,” you admit.

That completely ruins him.

You feel it in the way his hold on you tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. Like he’s not letting go anytime soon.

“Then c’mere whenever you want,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t make yourself nervous over it, alright?”

You nod against his chest.

“Okay.”

His fingers drift through your hair, slow and careful, and the movie continues playing in the background, forgotten.

You stay tucked against him, warm and quiet, listening to his heartbeat.

Then you saw it.

A single cup sat in the center of the kitchen island, white, ceramic, no lid. Steam still rose gently from the dark liquid inside, curling in delicate tendrils into the morning air. And on the paper cup sleeve, from the little café down the road that you liked, someone had doodled a crescent moon. Your breath caught. That was your moon. The same stylized shape you’d doodle on notepads, whiteboards, even the corner of mission maps. The same one that matched the silver pendant you wore around your neck, always hidden beneath your neckline.

You stepped closer. The scent hit you first, a rich, bold roast with a hint of cinnamon and just a splash of oat milk: exactly how you ordered it. You picked up the cup slowly, eyes scanning the kitchen, the hall, even the windows, but there was no one. Not a sound of retreating footsteps, no rustle of movement, nothing.

Except…

Out past the glass, heading toward the training wing, a figure moved briskly across the courtyard. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hoodie pulled up despite the July heat. The way he walked, stiff, precise, like he was trying not to look like he was walking away from something.

Bucky.

You blinked, instinctively stepping closer to the window, the warmth of the cup seeping into your hands. He didn’t look back. His pace didn’t falter. But something in your gut twisted, that odd fluttering feeling, soft and uninvited, like the moment just before a dream becomes something real.

You took a cautious sip. It was the perfect temperature.

There was no note or message, nothing but the doodle and the unshakable feeling that someone, maybe Bucky, had been paying much closer attention than you ever expected.

And for the first time in weeks, the exhaustion faded just a little.

*****

Lunch at the compound was always a strange affair—never quite formal, never quite casual, its tone dictated by who was present and whether the latest mission had ended in triumph or disaster. That afternoon, the kitchen hummed with quiet energy as Sam held court, leaning back with a self-satisfied grin while recounting Steve’s near-collision with a rogue protein shake spill. Natasha smirked into her coffee, Clint chimed in about finishing a thriller on the quinjet ride back, and soon the table had launched into favorite author confessions—Sam swearing by Octavia Butler, Natasha standing firm on Le Carré, and Vision offering a dignified nod to Austen, earning a groan from Sam.

“I used to read The Secret of Rowan Hollow every summer,” you said absently, more to yourself than anyone else, the name tumbling out like a familiar melody. “My aunt had this battered old copy with half the cover torn off. It had these eerie little black-and-white illustrations between the chapters. Felt like magic.”

Wanda glanced over with interest. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“No one has,” you replied with a soft chuckle. “It’s out of print. I looked for it once, but it was like it vanished with my childhood.” You shrugged, brushing it off with a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, then changed the subject before the ache of nostalgia could linger too long.

You forgot about it by dinner.

You remembered it again the next week when you stepped into your room and found the package sitting neatly in the center of your bed.

It was wrapped in brown paper, carefully folded and secured with a thin piece of twine, like something from a quaint corner bookstore . You hesitated, closing the door slowly behind you, and approached it with cautious curiosity. A small white tag had been slipped beneath the twine, but it didn’t have your name, only a tiny ink drawing of your crescent moon.

You slipped your finger under the seam and peeled the paper back.

Your heart stuttered.

The Secret of Rowan Hollow. The exact edition you remembered, aged but pristine, with that haunting forest illustration across the front and those familiar fraying edges you’d once traced again and again as a kid.

You sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, almost afraid the whole thing would vanish if you blinked too hard. Your fingers hovered over the embossed title, then gently opened the cover. Pressed between the pages, page seventy-two, the scene with the ghost in the attic, was a daisy. Dried, whole, and perfectly preserved.

It wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.

Your mind raced through the few people who might do something like this. Steve? Maybe. Nat? Unlikely. Tony wouldn’t bother. But your gut, your instinct, told you exactly who it was. You looked over your shoulder, half-expecting someone to be watching from the hallway, but it was empty. 

Your eyes lingered on the book again. The flower.

No name, but a shape was starting to form in your thoughts. A tall shadow who moved like he didn’t want to be seen. A man who hadn’t spoken more than a few words to you, but always seemed to be somewhere nearby, watching without watching. Guarding without permission. 

You ran your thumb gently over the soft edge of the daisy, your chest blooming with something warm and fragile.

You didn’t know for sure yet, but you were beginning to suspect.

*****

The training wing always smelled faintly of sweat and rubber mats, sun-baked steel and adrenaline. Mornings here were usually quiet, early risers like Steve and Bucky cycling through punishing routines in near silence, but today, you’d been roped into a sparring session after Natasha claimed she “needed to see your right hook in action.”

Somehow, that had landed you on the mat across from Bucky Barnes.

He stood across from you now, calm and composed, arms loose at his sides, chest rising and falling beneath a slate gray T-shirt that clung just a little too well to the sculpted muscle beneath. His vibranium arm glinted under the overhead lights, that beautiful, sleek Wakandan design that hummed with silent power. There was a strange softness to him today, like he’d sanded down the sharpest edges.

His blue eyes flicked to you, unreadable. “You ready?”

You gave a playful roll of your shoulders, brushing a lock of hair back with the back of your hand. “Unless you’re scared of being shown up by a girl.”

A flicker of something, a smirk, maybe, tugged at the corner of his mouth. It vanished just as quickly.

“Nope,” he muttered, voice low and steady. “Just don’t want to break you.”

You laughed, stepping forward into position. “Try me, Tin Man.”

Ten minutes later, your lungs were burning and your knuckles smarted.

Bucky moved like water, fluid, efficient, and effortless. You could feel how much he was holding back in the way he dodged just enough to avoid contact, how he didn’t follow through on openings he could’ve exploited. He was careful, like if he hit too hard, you might vanish in a puff of dust.

You pushed harder because of it.

You landed a glancing blow to his side that made his eyebrow tick up. That was reward enough.

But then you tried a more ambitious combo, a sweep, a pivot, and a right cross that didn’t quite land right, and you felt the jolt immediately.

Pain burst across your knuckles, dull and pulsing. You hissed, pulling your hand back and shaking it out.

Bucky stepped forward instantly. “You alright?”

His voice dropped, concerned now. You nodded, stubborn, even as you cradled your hand against your chest.

“Fine,” you said through gritted teeth. “Just... overextended.”

He looked at your hand, then at your face. His jaw clenched. “You need to stop when that happens.”

His concern was real, edged with guilt, and something softer, tucked beneath the careful blankness in his expression.

You tilted your head, voice dipping just enough to sound coy. “Didn’t know you cared so much.”

His eyes flicked to yours, a full second of silence, then back to your hand. His next words were quiet.

“I notice things.”

You blinked, heart stuttering. “Yeah?”

A beat. His lips parted like he might say something more, but instead, he nodded once, turned away, and muttered, “You should ice that.”

And just like that, the moment slipped from your fingers.

You made your way to the locker room alone a few minutes later, hand throbbing despite your best attempts to play it off. You sat on the bench, peeled off your gloves, and sighed at the angry red swelling across your knuckles. You were already dreading the stiffness.

Then you opened your locker.

Inside sat a small black zip-up pouch, a first-aid kit. Not the standard-issue kind the compound kept on hand, but a personalized one. Inside were your preferred flexible bandages, a cold pack, some gentle antiseptic balm, and, taped to the top, a square of dark chocolate and a yellow sticky note.

The handwriting was neat and blocky. You recognized it.

“You held your ground today.”

You stared at the note, your fingers curling around the chocolate like it might vanish if you didn’t hold onto it tightly enough.

It was him. It had to be.

And if you weren’t sure before, the tension in the gym, the way he watched you like you were some kind of impossible equation he couldn’t solve, the look in his eyes when you teased him, now you were certain.

You had a secret admirer. And his name was Bucky Barnes.

*****

It had been an offhand comment, one of those throwaway observations you make when you’re running on caffeine and a few hours of sleep, chatting just to keep your brain from turning off. You and Sam were walking side by side, each holding to-go mugs from the kitchen, trading bits of small talk on your way to the admin wing.

You tucked your free hand into your hoodie pocket and let out a breath. “My room still feels like a rental unit.”

Sam looked over, raising a brow. “You’ve lived here for over a year.”

“Exactly.” You sipped your coffee, wincing slightly, too hot. “I keep saying I’m going to decorate, but then missions happen, or someone blows up a hallway, or I just, I don’t know, forget.”

He smiled knowingly. “So decorate. What do you want?”

You hummed, thinking aloud. “I don’t know. Just something small. A plant, maybe. Something green. I feel like it would brighten things up a little. Bring some life in.”

Sam gave you a mock gasp. “You? A plant parent?”

You grinned. “Only the kind that doesn’t judge me for neglect.”

“Maybe you need something cursed and dramatic,” he teased, giving your arm a gentle nudge with his elbow. “Like a poisonous orchid that only blooms at midnight.”

You laughed as you turned the corner. “You joke, but I’d probably forget to water that too.”

The conversation drifted to other things, mission updates, Steve’s growing obsession with protein powder, the truly wretched breakfast Tony had tried to make earlier, and you didn’t think about the plant again after that.

But someone else had.

The admin wing of the compound was always cooler in the late morning, its temperature carefully calibrated to keep Stark’s precious server systems from overheating. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as you made your way through the hallway, the soft soles of your sneakers whispering against the polished floor. You'd only stopped by your desk to drop off a signed report, half expecting a clutter of outdated files and a broken pen or two, but what you found instead made you stop short in the doorway.

It was small, simple, and alive.

A pothos plant sat neatly on the corner of your desk, its deep green leaves spilling over the ceramic edge of a round, glossy pot. The color of the planter was dark, nearly black with a faint shimmer in the light, like night sky glaze, and the leaves looked freshly watered, vibrant and thriving. Tied to one of the stems with a bit of twine was a hand-lettered tag made from thick, soft paper. Your fingers brushed it gently as you read:

“Low maintenance. But still needs care.”

Your stomach fluttered, not from confusion anymore, but from confirmation. Whoever had been leaving these things knew you. Or at least, they were trying to. It was thoughtful and deliberate, almost tender.

Your lips curved upward, slow and involuntary. The kind of smile that bloomed without thought, the kind you couldn’t hold back if you tried.

You turned slightly, scanning the hallway through the glass wall beside your desk. At first, you only glimpsed empty space, but then you saw him.

Across the corridor, half-shadowed near a supply alcove, stood Bucky Barnes. His back was to the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you in the stillest, quietest way.

He didn’t flinch when you met his gaze.

For a moment, one long, suspended beat, the air between you pulled tight, like a cord drawn taut between two ends. You could feel it in your chest. He wasn’t looking through you, pretending his focus was on something else. He was watching you, unblinking, like he needed to memorize something before it was gone.

And then, just like that, he looked away.

He pushed off the wall with one slow movement and walked down the hall without a word, shoulders hunched slightly, head down like he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You stood frozen in place, one hand still resting lightly on the edge of the plant’s pot, heart fluttering in your chest like a trapped bird.

He’d seen you smile. He’d stayed just long enough to make sure you did.

*****

The common room was unusually quiet for a Saturday. You sat curled up in the corner of the sectional, an open tablet on your lap, one leg tucked under you and the other swinging slightly over the edge. You weren’t really reading. You’d scrolled past the same paragraph three times, barely seeing the words. Your focus had drifted elsewhere, into a quiet, persistent question you could no longer ignore.

Your thumb idly traced the rim of your mug as your mind replayed the moments in reverse. The quiet footsteps down the hallway. The look across the admin wing. The way Bucky had stood there, half in shadow, watching you smile at something he’d left, like he needed proof that he hadn’t gotten it wrong.

You couldn’t deny it.

It was him.

And he wasn’t just being nice. These weren’t generic gestures, they were personal. He was showing you the kind of attention no one ever gave unless they were really listening. 

You shifted on the couch, heart pounding as the realization settled in. You’d been seen in a way that was careful and quiet and completely unspoken.

But the part that made your chest ache was that he hadn’t said a word.

He watched, he gave, and he disappeared.

A part of you wanted to march straight to his room and say something, anything, but there was still that invisible wall between you. You could feel it every time he left a room just before you entered, or how his eyes would flick to you like a reflex before darting away again. Like he was afraid of being caught wanting something he didn’t believe he was allowed to have.

You set the mug down gently and rose to your feet.

You didn’t know what he was afraid of: rejection, being wrong, being seen in return. But you already knew he didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

Tomorrow was your birthday.

And if he left something again, just one more silent offering, one more tender, wordless gift, then that would be it.

You’d stop pretending you didn’t know.

You’d knock on his door and ask him why he was trying so hard to love you from a distance.

*****

You weren’t expecting anything.

That was the lie you told yourself as you stood in front of your door the next morning, fingers hesitating just inches from the handle. You hadn’t mentioned your birthday to anyone. It was buried somewhere in your file or an HR calendar no one ever looked at, but it wasn’t the kind of day you usually drew attention to. Too many birthdays had come and gone with more silence than celebration. You’d gotten used to carrying the day quietly.

But this year felt different.

Because this year, you weren’t alone. Not since the coffee, the book, the chocolate, the plant, and the way he watched you like you mattered, even if he never said it.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and opened the door.

A small gift bag sat on the floor. The tissue paper inside was a muted silver, and it rustled softly as you knelt down and pulled it aside with tentative fingers.

Inside was a slice of cake, your favorite flavor, still chilled, the frosting wrapped neatly in wax paper to keep it from smudging. There was a candle tucked beside it, unlit, but the message was there all the same: someone remembered. Someone cared enough to make sure some sweetness was waiting for you.

You set it aside carefully, breath catching as your hand brushed a small box at the bottom of the bag.

It was velvet. Midnight blue. The kind of box you knew to open slowly.

Inside was a delicate pendant, a teardrop moonstone set in a fine silver chain, iridescent and pale, glowing faintly as it caught the morning light. You gasped before you could stop yourself. You had told Nat once, months ago, in the middle of a stakeout, bored and shivering in the dark, that you always loved moonstone. That it felt like carrying a piece of the sky close to your skin. You hadn’t thought anyone was listening.

Beneath it, folded with near military precision, was a piece of paper.

His handwriting.

You’re the brightest thing in a place full of shadows. I didn’t want to ruin that by being near it. But I hope this still means something. Happy Birthday.

No signature, no initials, but you didn’t need either.

You were already moving down the hall, heart thudding like a drum inside your chest, bare feet whispering across the cold floor. You didn’t even think. Your body knew the way before your mind caught up, past the kitchen, past the empty lounge, until you stood in front of a door you’d walked past a hundred times without ever knocking.

Bucky’s.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your knuckles hit the wood, three soft raps that somehow echoed louder than they should.

The door opened slower than you expected, like he’d known it would be you. He stood in the doorway, hoodie slung low over his brow, dark hair curling slightly at his temples, eyes wide and unreadable.

You held up the bag gently, “You’ve been leaving things for me,” you said, voice steady despite the tremble in your chest. “All this time.”

Bucky’s expression shifted immediately, from blank surprise to something closer to panic, his jaw tensing, eyes flicking down the hall as if looking for a way out.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, voice a little too fast, too tight.

“Bucky,” you said, gently, not moving from where you stood. “Don’t do that.”

He shook his head once, almost like a reflex. “I didn’t— It wasn’t me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He didn’t answer.

“I guess someone else happens to know exactly how I take my coffee. And my favorite book. And the exact brand of bandages I like to keep in my locker. And how I’ve always wanted a moonstone pendant.” You took a slow step forward. “Was it Sam?”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

“I did mention the plant to him.” you pushed, tilting your head. “Maybe Tony? I mean, someone left this outside my door this morning. With a note. In your handwriting.”

He flinched.

“Bucky,” you said again, softer now, letting the weight of everything between you settle into your voice. “You’ve been leaving things for me in secret. And I want to know why.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting to the gift bag, then to the floor. His voice, when it came, was barely audible.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to yours, throat working around a reply he wasn’t sure he was allowed to give. “Because I didn’t think you’d want to know it was me.”

You took a step forward, holding his gaze. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Bucky’s hand curled around the edge of the doorframe. “Because... I didn’t want to ruin anything. You’re warm. You’re light. I didn’t want to get too close and put shadows over that.”

Your heart cracked, full and aching. “You could never ruin anything.”

He still wouldn’t look at you. “I just wanted you to have good things… And I didn’t think I could say that out loud.”

You reached into the bag, pulled out the moonstone pendant, and held it up between you.

“You did say it,” you whispered. “You just didn’t use words.”

For the first time, he met your eyes and you saw the fear, the tenderness, the desperate hope that maybe he hadn’t misread every silent smile, every teasing comment, every glance you thought was too brief to matter.

“Can I take you out sometime?” he asked, voice low and careful, like it might shatter on the way out.

You smiled, and it felt like sunlight pouring out of your chest.

“Only if next time you get me something,” you said, stepping into his space, “you give it to me in person.”

His breath hitched, and then, for the first time in what felt like forever, he smiled, soft, lopsided, and real. 

~~~

when you met him, you were told to expect the worst. you were briefed that he doesn't talk to anyone, doesn't leave his apartment except for work, etc. you were mentally prepared for the antisocial homebody you had been forewarned about, but you weren't nervous. you would just be yourself and hope for the best.

but when you met him, he wasn't staring at you like everyone said he would. yes, he was staring at you, but not with the rage of a thousand suns like you anticipated. his eyes were wide open in... curiosity?

he was shy, but he shook your hand no problem.

internally, he was a wreck. he was melting just from seeing your smile, something that had never happened to him before. he was stunned into silence. sure, he never really made the effort to speak to anyone else anyways, but you?

how was he supposed to talk to a pretty girl like you?

he would only embarrass himself, or look like a pathetic loser, or maybe you had made your decision about him before you met him. maybe you already hated him, and he didn't even stand a chance.

he knew how his demeanor came off; he didn't care what people thought of him. ideally, they wouldn't perceive him at all. the dream life would be to work, stay in the shadows, and never have to speak to another soul again.

but you... god, you were just something else. he wanted to say more to you than he had, he wanted to prove to you that he was more than the angry, people-loathing person everyone else probably told you he was.

after your first meeting, he felt a fool. he blubbered and stuttered like an idiot, and Sam smacked his shoulder and chuckled as you walked away. he scowled at him and stalked off, as usual.

he was just a hateful person. no reason for you to think he could be more than that.

~~~

"you're so pretty, sweetheart," he whispers to you, taking in the sight in front of him. your eyes are shut so softly, relishing in the way he's making such gentle love to you. it's almost sickening how sweet the scene is.

he brings a flesh hand to your cheek, cradling your face in his palm. brings new meaning to "his whole world in the palm of his hand."

"oh, baby," you mumble to him, moving your hips against him a little, neediness taking over your mind. "Bucky, baby, my baby..."

"come on," he whispers. with your eyes closed, you don't see the way his face pinks up. "I'm not a baby. you are my baby," he says, adjusting his grip on you, keeping his hands pressed against your soft skin. his fingertips dip into your flesh ever so softly, making sure not to hurt you. he'd go to the ends of the earth to protect you, rip out anyone's spine for you...

"but you are my baby," you whisper back to him, eyes still shut. your voice is a soft whine as you slowly move back and forth. "you’re my baby, Bucky. my baby, my Bucky, all mine..."

your words send him into a spiral. him? your baby? he's fucked.

"would... would you say it again?" he says, so low in the back of his throat, the words are barely audible.

"you're my baby," you repeat, and he somehow pulls you even closer, as if you're not already as close together as humanly possible.

"and you’re mine, sweetheart,” he tells you as he begins to move you both, still keeping you pressed tightly against him as he lays you on your back and begins to move his hips between yours so slowly and perfectly. “god, I love you,” he breathes.

you let out a soft little cry. "shh, pretty baby, I'm here," he says to you, his tone just a little higher, the way it shifts only around you. "you know I'm here. I'll always be here. just let me take care of you, my baby.”

~~~

every time you spoke to him him after your initial meeting, he felt like his entire reality was warped. time seemed to speed up, moving way too fast whenever he got the chance to speak to you. it was never enough time.

he found himself smiling, even blushing around you. everyone else was shocked, wondering if the man was on drugs or something with the way he seemed to perk up around you.

but no, no drugs.

you lit up something in his soul that he didn't know was possible.

no matter how scared he was, how convinced he was that you were going to say no, he knew he cared too much about you to not make the effort. he was so deeply in love with you to not ask you.

and if you said no, he would deal with it the same way he dealt with everything else: by pretending he didn't care and falling deeper into his hatred for the world.

lucky for the both of you, when he asked you out, you said "yes!" with a vibrant smile and a small spring in your step. he thought he would never be happier than he was in that moment.

oh, but he was wrong. that moment when he got down on one knee, and saw the way your face lit up in pure delight and excitement as you exclaimed, "yes, yes, yes!" over and over again?

that was the happiest moment of his life.

~~~

he reaches down to where your hands are now interlaced, running his fingers over the metal band on your ring finger. he proceeds to bring your hand to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles, to the permanent mark he's now left on your skin, forever.

a beautiful diamond for the most beautiful girl in the world.

having you, here, under him. it's the biggest privilege of his life to call you his, and he's going to spend the rest of his life trying to prove that he deserves to have you.

"you feelin' good, baby?" he whispers to you, cupping your face in his hand once more. "tell me what you need. anything at all, it's yours."

you shake your head. "it's perfect, baby..." you whine, lifting your hips to meet his.

"you ready for me to make you come, baby?" he asks, pushing a strand of hair out of your face.

"yes, please, James," you ask him, and he brings his lips to your neck.

"no need for pleas, baby, I'm gonna give you everything you want for the rest of our lives."

he moves your legs to wrap around his waist and kisses your neck up to your jaw, doubling down on his efforts as he fucks you so sweetly.

"that's my girl. my baby, my fiance," he whispers as though he's speaking to himself. "you're doing so well, babydoll. come for me."

your legs tighten around his waist, trapping his hips against yours as you bear down and reach your release with a cry of his name.

"so beautiful, that's it, baby," he whispers, holding you through it.

"I love you, James," you whisper as you find your breath again.

"oh, baby, you'll never know how much I love you. how much you've changed my life for the better. how afraid I am of the feelings I have for you... and how I'd rather die than run away from the feeling, no matter how much it scares me."

your eyes well up with tears of joy, and he wipes them away with a soft brush of his thumb.

"I'm yours, forever, babydoll," he whispers, and leans in to kiss you like the world depends on it.

because it does. you are his world.

~~~

who am I and what have I done with horny bri. I guess I'm a softie now

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